


Vanished

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alt Clut (Hetalia: Axis Powers) - Freeform, Dal Riata (Hetalia: Axis Powers) - Freeform, Elmet (Hetalia: Axis Powers) - Freeform, Gododdin (Hetalia: Axis Powers) - Freeform, Gwynedd (Hetalia: Axis Powers) - Freeform, M/M, Mercia (Hetalia: Axis Powers) - Freeform, Northumbria (Hetalia: Axis Powers) - Freeform, Pictland (Hetalia: Axis Powers) - Freeform, Rheged (Hetalia: Axis Powers) - Freeform, Wessex (Hetalia: Axis Powers) - Freeform, Yr Hen Ogledd (Hetalia: Axis Powers)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:50:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>597 - circa 1000: The kingdom of Gwynedd has many brothers and sisters, but they are all slowly vanishing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Gwynedd's brothers here are all kingdoms of Yr Hen Ogledd (The Old North); areas of central Britain controlled by Brythonic-speaking peoples following the Roman withdrawal.
> 
> Alt Clut: A kingdom covering parts of what is now southern Scotland and northern England.
> 
> Elmet: A kingdom covering a broad area of what later became the West Riding of Yorkshire.
> 
> Gododdin: A kingdom which included what are now the Lothian and Borders regions of eastern Scotland. 
> 
> Rheged: A kingdom which is believed to have comprised what is now Cumbria in North West England and possibly extended into Lancashire and Scotland.
> 
> Gwynedd: A kingdom in the north of what would become Wales.
> 
> Pictland: Land of the Picts, who lived in what would become Scotland to the north of the rivers Forth and Clyde
> 
> Dal Riata: A Gaelic kingdom on the western coast of Scotland and part of Ulster, established in the sixth century.
> 
> The Peak: A kingdom in the Pennines, occupying what is now the Peak District.
> 
> Dunoting: A kingdom in the Peninnes, to the north of The Peak.

 

* * *

**596, Kingdom of Gwynedd**

  
  
  
For a moment, after he answers the rap at his chamber door, Gwynedd fears he must have unbolted it for a spirit rather than one of his own, living kin.  
  
Gododdin – if it is indeed he and not his fetch – seems much diminished, his posture that of an old crone rather than the youth fast approaching full manhood he had been when Gwynedd saw him last, his back hunched and head bowed down low as though it’s too heavy a burden for his body to bear.  
  
The hand he clasps around Gwynedd’s wrist in greeting is solid enough, but it’s been worn down to little more than bones, sinew, and skin so translucently pale that Gwynedd can see the veins running beneath, and how they curl tight around each swollen knuckle. His touch is far colder than the fine spring day outside would normally allow.  
  
“Gwynedd,” he says. His voice sounds arid and dusty, like the air escaping from a recently-opened barrow and his breath smells just as foul. “It’s good to see you.”  
  
Gwynedd rather thinks Gododdin is simply being kind, because surely it can be nothing but a slap in the face to see that Gwynedd himself is just as stout as he has always been; his cheeks just as full and pinked with good health.  
  
But to question his brother’s honesty would be nothing but cruel, so Gwynedd says, “It’s good to see you, too.” He steps back a little way, gently twisting his arm out of Gododdin’s grip as he does so. It falls away far too easily. “Please, come in.”  
  
The smile Gododdin gives him in answer is like a skull’s: rictus-stiff and over-wide. The front tooth that he had lost three years ago has yet to grow back, and the gum above where it had once been is still as raw and swollen as it was the day he took the blow to the face which loosed it.  
  
That sight more than any other makes Gwynedd shiver, but he masks his discomfort with a weak quip about the heat from his room taking its chance to rush out when he welcomed Gododdin in.  
  
“Then we should sit by the hearth as we talk,” Gododdin says, and though it sounds very much like a suggestion, he waits for neither Gwynedd’s agreement nor his invitation before hobbling over to the fire and sinking down onto one of the two chairs set in front of it.  
  
Gwynedd makes no mention of his brother’s bad manners before he takes the other seat, not even in jest. It seems far too petty to mention now, and he very much doubts it would make Gododdin laugh as it usually would.  
  
“You need my aid?” he asks, and the words sound stark and unpleasant somehow, freed from the small evasions, oblique references and pretty language he would normally drape around that question in order to soften its blow.  
  
He thinks Gododdin has no need of such pretences, as his pride is likely in tatters already. It must be, for him to make this visit in his current condition, with his weakness writ plain in his trembling limbs and the deep-scored lines around his mouth. Kindness is clearly not what he needs the most; swift action is.  
  
Still, Gododdin merely stares up at him in silence for a moment as though he is struggling to comprehend what Gwynedd has asked of him. His eyes have always been pale, but now they are almost colourless; a single splash of green dye dropped into a cup of cloudy water.  
  
Eventually, he laughs, but it’s a brittle, broken sound, like bones rattling together. Or perhaps Ogham sticks being shaken in a fortune teller’s palm. Gwynedd chills again at that association, because it has the stink of ill-omen about it; a destiny held within the hands of another, its outcome uncertain.  
  
He hopes he is wrong; that the hollowness in his belly and heaviness in his heart are just the after-effects of his shock upon seeing Gododdin so changed.  
  
“The wolves are baying for my blood again, Gwyn,” Gododdin says, turning his head away from Gwynedd and towards the fire. His hair could once have rivalled the flames in its vibrancy, but it too has faded in hue; it puts Gwynedd more in mind of autumnal leaves now, and he thinks if he were to touch it, it would feel just as dry and lifeless. “Fucking Angles have set their sights on my land.”  
  
Gwynedd fears Gododdin is not alone in that. The invaders have been baring their teeth at both Elmet and Rheged, too of late; jaws slathering with their greed. The last thing keeping them from Alt Clut’s door would be Gododdin himself, and if he fell…  
  
Gwynedd hates that true terror comes only with that thought, because he likes to believe himself impartial; that each of his brothers is equally as dear to him.  
  
The resulting guilt makes him rash, and he gives his promise without once considering the consequences of making it.  
  
“Even if my King cannot spare you any men,” he says, “I will stand by you.”

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
**596; Kingdom of Gododdin**

  
  
Gwynedd’s King can not only spare a detachment of foot soldiers for Gododdin’s aid, but ten of his best warriors too, along with horses for both them and Gwynedd himself.  
  
They reach Din Eidyn just before the year’s longest day, lathered in sweat and covered in dust from the road. The heat of the day and length of their journey has sapped the strength of man and beast both, but Gododdin’s promise of food and mead when he greets them outside Mynyddog Mwynfawr’s hall goes a long way to restoring their good cheer.  
  
The men’s joy is reflected on Gododdin’s face, and although it cannot restore any of the lost flesh to his sunken cheeks, it at least returns some of the old brightness to his smile.  
  
He embraces Gwynedd exuberantly after Gwynedd has given his horse’s reins to a passing servant, holding him tight against his narrow chest as his hands clutch up loose fistfuls of cloth at the back of Gwynedd’s léine.  
  
Gwynedd tries not to dwell upon how sharp the points of Gododdin’s collarbone feel as they bump against his own far more amply covered ones, or how his ribs seem like knife’s edges, each one – separate and distinct – pressed hard and biting against the underside of his arm.  
  
“It’s good to see you,” Gododdin breathes out raggedly, the words so quiet that they must be meant for Gwynedd’s ears alone. “All of our brothers are already here. Along with other allies…” He steps back then, shaking his head. “I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you. You must come and see for yourself.”

 

 

* * *

 

  
As is expected, there is a separate room set aside for the kingdoms’ feasting to take place in, far away from their men; from their noise and human concerns.  
  
Gwynedd does not much care for the custom normally – he considers his people’s concerns as much his as they are their own, and enjoys their company besides – but for once he cherishes the opportunity to spend time with his brothers alone, their conversation unbound from the schemes of their Kings for a while.  
  
Elmet meets his arrival with all of his usual laconism, merely giving a curt wave of acknowledgement before returning his attention to his mead, as economical with his words as he is with all else. Like Gododdin, he too seems to have lost weight; the arms revealed by the drape of his brat when he raises his flagon to his lips are scrawny and deep corded with stringy muscle. Reassuringly, though, his complexion is ruddy, and his grey-green eyes penetrate with their typical intensity.  
  
Rheged gives Gwynedd more of his attention, but, as has been his own custom in more recent years, he does not appear to like what he sees. The sneering twist of his lips makes Gwynedd’s name sound like a curse word when he spits it out of his mouth like a bitter taste.  
  
He has yet to forgive Gwynedd’s failure to keep them all safe from the reach of Rome’s sword arm, and Gwynedd’s starting to believe he never will.  
  
Still, he looks hale enough, and Gwynedd finds comfort in that equal to the disappointment his brother evidentially feels at the evidence of his own continued good health.  
  
He always sees Alt Clut through love’s eyes, which are often deceiving, smoothing away all blemishes and imperfections, so whatever the reality may be, to him, his favourite brother seems unchanged. His face, his hair, his broad, happy grin are just as vivid and clear as they have ever been, and his step is just as vital when he launches himself up from his own seat and then sprints the length of the long banqueting table to fling his arms around Gwynedd’s shoulders.  
  
“It’s been too long, Gwyn,” he says, his laughter spilling out against Gwynedd’s damp skin in hot, tickling gusts.  
  
“Only the turn of a season, by my count,” Gwynedd protests.  
  
“As I said, far too long.” Alt Clut draws back a little way in order to press their foreheads together. Close to, his eyes do seem as though they might have darkened a touch, but Gwynedd tells himself that it is simply a trick of the light; a shadow cast between the two of them by the close angle of their bodies. “I shall have to endeavour to put Gododdin’s life in danger more often, if that’s what it takes to get you to visit us.”  
  
“I thought you came here because you cared about my well-being,” Gododdin butts in, sounding a little put out but mostly just amused. “And all along it was just an excuse to pass time with Gwynedd. You wound me, Alt Clut.”  
  
Alt Clut breaks away from Gwynedd, laughing again. “I’d rather you didn’t die, too, brawd. Honestly.”  
  
Gododdin shakes his head in a mockery of despair. “What fine allies I’ve gathered around myself.” His last word cuts off abruptly, and his gaze flicks up to meet Gwynedd’s. “One of whom is notable by his absence. I hope he’s in his chambers and not out on one of his expeditions, otherwise we’ll not see him for a sennight, at least. You came earlier than we ever expected, Gwyn, so I never thought to ask him not to stray too far from the hall today.  
  
“You stay here and fill your belly,” Gododdin says, patting Gwynedd’s shoulder. “I’ll go and see if I can find him.”

 

 

* * *

  
  
Alt Clut talks of much whilst they wait for Gododdin’s return – the hunts he has been on since winter’s end, the spells he has cast and the people he has met – but he refuses to be drawn on the identity of Gododdin’s mysterious ally.  
  
“Gododdin would never forgive me if I ruin his surprise,” he says through a mouthful of bread.  
  
“Just fucking tell him, will you, Alt Clut,” Rheged says, eyeing them both with disgust from the other side of the table. “I’m sick of hearing him bleat on and on about it like one of his damn sheep.”  
  
Alt Clut and Gwynedd ignore him. They’ve become very good at it of late.  
  
“Is it Dál Riata?” Gwynedd suggests, because he can’t think of an ally much more surprising than that.  
  
“Is it fuck.” Alt Clut snorts, shaking his head. “Can’t imagine that bastard ever coming down here to help us.”  
  
Gwynedd is hesitant to name Dál Riata a bastard – he hasn’t had enough dealings with him to form an opinion of his character, for good or for ill – but he certainly does seem thoroughly disinterested in Gwynedd’s brothers’ affairs unless they threaten to encroach on his own lands.  
  
“Is it—“  
  
Gwynedd’s next guess is interrupted by the booming crash of a door being flung open with some force behind him, followed by the only slightly softer thuds of slow, leaden footsteps crossing the room’s threshold.  
  
Alt Clut’s grin returns. “Surely you recognise that tread, Gwyn?”  
  
Gwynedd does, but he can scarce believe his own ears, because he hasn’t heard it for a century or more, and even then, it had never been sounded against the close-packed earth of a hall’s floor, but against soil, and bracken, and the thick blankets of heather beyond the remnants of Rome’s old wall, whilst he and Alt Clut huddled behind it, daring each other to be the first to greet their Northern neighbour.  
  
But they never did dare; they just crouched there, growing giddy with anticipation, until their fear-born giggling grew so loud that they gave their position away, and Pictland reached over the wall and hauled them up by the scruffs of their necks. He never said a word, then; simply cuffed them both on the backs of their heads and sent them on their way again.  
  
He doesn’t say a word now, either, as he walks towards the table with his heavy feet and his heavy magic gathering thick in the air around him, oppressive as an oncoming storm.  
  
His voice, when he does finally unleash it, sounds like the thunder that his approach promised: low and rumbling. “Gwynedd,” he says, and nothing more.  
  
Even though he chides himself for his cowardice all the while, it still takes a moment for Gwynedd to summon the nerve to turn towards him.  
  
The fear is a ridiculous one, because Pictland has never done aught to harm him save for the odd smack and thrown rock whenever he caught Gwynedd and Alt Clut lingering too close to his land, but it is ancient and abiding, nevertheless. Not even Mama had known who Pictland really was, where he came from or who might have borne him, which had made Gwynedd disposed to consider him a strange and unworldly figure from the start; his very existence unnerving.  
  
And looking, when he does finally brave it, only serves to increase Gwynedd’s anxiety.  
  
Although Pictland is not much taller, the years have broadened his frame considerably; his shoulders easily a sword’s length in width – if not more – and his neck as thick as a bull’s. His eyes and hair are still dark, but not as dark as his expression, which pulls his thick eyebrows into bristling knots and his otherwise generous mouth into a tight, unyielding line.  
  
The air seems to freeze in Gwynedd’s chest under the coldness of his gaze, and he can barely find enough breath to wheeze out an answering, “Pictland.”  
  
Pictland nods once and then wheels away from Gwynedd, pivoting swiftly on his heel.  
  
“There, I’ve greeted Gwynedd for you,” he says to Gododdin. “Is there anything else you need me to do?”  
  
Gododdin pauses in the act of pulling a chair towards the table – presumably intended for Pictland’s use – and gapes at him in silence for a moment, clearly caught off guard. “No,” he says eventually, “but—“  
  
Pictland has stomped out of the room before the second word has even finished leaving Gododdin’s mouth. The silence he leaves behind is almost as weighty as his presence had been, and it takes good, long while for it to lift sufficiently that Gwynedd and his brothers feel free enough to start talking amongst themselves once more.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
The days have grown shorter, but definitely no cooler.  
  
Even this far north, of late every overcast morning has given way to brilliant, cloudless skies come noon, when the sun is at its highest. It beats down remorselessly, scorching the air until it feels thin and parched, and none more so than that trapped inside the thick walls of Goddodin’s King’s hall.  
  
Gwynedd and his brothers have taken to spending their afternoons outside, stretched out beneath the shade of one of the few scraggy trees that somehow manages to cling onto the steep, rocky hillside beyond the hall, made so dull and lethargic by the heat that they lack the energy to do much of anything other than chatter idly amongst themselves.  
  
“No matter what your King has promised our men, Gododdin, I don’t think I can take a whole year of feasting,” Alt Clut groans, one such lazy afternoon, shocking Gwynedd out of the doze he had started to slip into after their previous conversation lulled.  
  
“No doubt you would be complaining about his lack of hospitality if you weren’t being fed as well as you are, Alt,” Goddodin says without even bothering to open his eyes.  
  
He is sitting leant back against the tree’s gnarled trunk, but Gwynedd thinks it is simply for his own comfort, and not because he is in need of the support it gives. In the month since Gwynedd’s arrival, some of his colour has returned, and along with it, a measure of his old strength. Whether it’s the company or the hope it has brought which has invigorated him, Gwynedd cannot say, but he is glad to see the improvement all the same.  
  
“I just don’t think there is room in my belly for much more. Look, I’ll show you.” It’s been so long since Alt Clut last moved that Gwynedd suspects his arms and legs may have fallen asleep even if the rest of him has not, and indeed he flounders like a fresh-caught fish for a while as he tries to roll himself onto his back. When he finally manages to do so, he grins at them all in triumph before hitching his thin léine up to his chest and pointing at his stomach. “See?”  
  
Alt Clut’s belly is as white as lamb’s wool and cupped like a shallow bowl, deeply shadowed by the jutting promontory of his ribcage. There is, perhaps, a tiny pooch of skin below his navel, but it looks as though it could just as likely have been born by the twist of his body than any excess flesh beneath it.  
  
Gododdin glances towards it and then snorts dismissively. “There’s nothing there, brawd. If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about it until you start spilling over the top of your truis like Gwynedd does.”  
  
Gwynedd joins in with his brothers’ laughter because he knows neither it nor Gododdin’s comment were intended to bring him any pain, no more than their shared jests about Elmet’s crooked nose or Rheged’s knobbly knees ever are. Mama always said it was a show of love, in its way, this sort of teasing, and they all suffer these small slights from each other from time to time, and return them in their due.  
  
Still, Gwynedd finds himself folding an arm around his own stomach, shielding it from view even as it shakes along to the tempo of his waning giggles. No matter how far he runs, how high he climbs, how diligently he practices with his bow, he cannot seem to rid himself of the corpulence he had hitherto always associated only with sloth. It is, it seems, simply his body’s natural shape, but although he often manages to persuade himself he is at peace with that fact, he still can’t help but dream that someday he might find himself slim and sleek like Alt Clut is, built for dexterity and fast-flowing steps, or else strong and thickly-muscled like…  
  
Well, like Pictland is, who looks as though he could lift Gwynedd himself with but one well-thewed arm, and never give any mind that he weighs far more than he ought.  
  
“Perhaps you could just stop eating quite so much, Alt,” Elmet says, when they finally quiet enough for him to be heard, his whittling knife never stopping moving over the wood in his hand. Gwynedd has not yet dared to ask him what it is that he’s been carving so diligently for the past few days; it appears to have fangs and fearsome horns enough that he believes he’s probably happier not knowing. “That might set your mind at ease.”  
  
“Don’t be daft,” Alt Clut says, shaking his head. “I never even _see_ this much food back home, it would be a waste not to gorge myself at Gododdin’s expense whilst I can.”

 

 

* * *

  


All of his brothers have fallen into slumber around him, but Gwynedd finds himself strangely wakeful even when the shadows falling across them lengthen as night begins to fall.  
  
He’s too captivated by the sounds of the dying day for sleep: the high-pitched chirrup which betrays the existence of grasshoppers hidden in the gorse bush behind him, the gentle rustle of leaves from above, and the odd mournful call of an owl which has started its hunting early. They combine together into something like a song, but one he doesn’t quite know the tune for yet.  
  
He hums along with it anyway, trying to gather together the disorderly notes into a pattern that seems more like his understanding of music. Once he has captured it, he knows the words which go with it will surely follow, flowing through his mind as easily as water in comparison.  
  
Or at least they would, were not his concentration broken by a discordant beat; one so loud that he soon loses hold of the thin thread of melody he had been weaving.  
  
An even more familiar beat now, are Pictland’s footsteps, given how often Gwynedd has heard them echoing through the hall when everyone else is abed, morning and night. He has come to wonder if the amount of noise Pictland makes is deliberate – perhaps with the intent to irritate in mind; Gwynedd has certainly cursed his name once or twice when he’s found himself roused from sleep before dawn – because not even his great heft seems to come close to explaining it otherwise.  
  
The footsteps do not falter or even slow as they pass by Gwynedd and his brothers, likely because Pictland’s eyes are fixed so firmly forward, his gaze never deviating, that he never even notices that they are there.  
  
He eventually comes to a halt when the land ahead of him takes pause in its steep descent, forming a small plateau barely ten ells wide. Gwynedd cannot read his exact expression when he draws his sword, as his face has been rendered indistinct by the distance between them, but he guesses by the rising swell of his shoulders and straightening of his back that it might well be a determined one.  
  
Or even proud. Gwynedd has never seen Pictland fight before, but Alt Clut has, and he’d seemed almost awed by the experience.  
  
“He fights like some sort of animal,” he had told Gwynedd in hushed, reverential tones. “It looks as though his sword’s just another part of his body; a huge claw or the like. And he never seems to tire. Even Rome was afraid of him.”  
  
But now, Pictland swings his sword leisurely, almost desultorily, his paces slow and feet dragging as they always do when he slams down the grand cacophony of his tread.  
      
Gwynedd cannot help but feel a little disappointed, even though he has long suspected that Alt Clut was simply exaggerating for the sake of a good story, as is often his wont. Gwynedd knows little about swordplay – he strives to improve almost daily, but his progress has ever been slow – but even to his ill-trained eye, he thinks even the greenest of his own King’s warriors would not find himself troubled in a contest of skills with Pictland.  
  
Then, suddenly and without warning, something shifts. Pictland’s sword cuts through the air faster and his strides become longer and more fluid until it seems as though he’s simply gliding across the narrow arena he has found for himself, barely even touching the ground. Gone is the lumbering awkwardness of his gait and the stiff movements of his thick body, replaced by a languid grace and ease as he weaves around and parries the attacks of countless invisible opponents.  
  
Gwynedd doesn’t think he looks like an animal at all. He looks as though he is dancing; each elegant movement matching some silent martial rhythm only he can hear.  
  
It’s beautiful to watch.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
Autumn is creeping across Gododdin’s land like a thief, stealing the leaves from the trees and the light from the sky.  
  
Gwynedd has become weary of feasting now himself, and, he is ashamed to admit, is starting to tire of his brothers’ company, too.  
  
None of them are used to passing so much time with one another, or being so long without solitude, which is so easy to find in their own homes that they quickly grow to despise it. Gwynedd had never realised how much he had come to need those quiet moments alone with his own thoughts until he was forced to share a bedchamber with Rheged and Elmet every night, and share all else with them never more than a few ells away all day.  
  
Even Alt Clut has begun to wear on his nerves a little, something he would doubtless feel guilty about were it not so clear that he was annoying Alt Clut too in his turn. They exchange harsh words every now and again lately, when they never have before; picking at each other over the most innocuous of bad habits and slips of the tongue, which they would always have let pass without comment in the past.  
  
They all seem to be but one word from being at one another’s throats at all times, and it’s tiring, as are the quarrels, scuffles, and ratting swords which keep breaking out over every minor disagreement or forgotten politeness.  
  
It has grown worse along with the weather, which has kept them confined indoors more often than not lately. Only Pictland seems immune, but then he has the good sense to spend most of his time outdoors, no matter how shrilly the wind is howling or how much rain lashes down upon his head.  
  
Gwynedd started following his example a fortnight back, and although he confines himself to a brisk circuit of the hill’s perimeter rather than any day-long excursions, he finds it calms him all the same. His brothers certainly seem a lot less irksome on his return, and even the incessant pointless arguments they insist on trying to start with him are much easier to ignore.  
  
Today, the air is so painfully cold that even the thick wool of Gwynedd’s brat does little to mitigate its sting, but it is at least dry. After the torrential downpour that had accompanied his walks for the past few days, it seems like a blessing.  
  
What does not, though, is the figure he sees not even half a league whence he set out, crouched beside the side of the faint path Gywnedd has worn for himself through the damp grass and soil beneath over the past two weeks.  
  
Gwynedd would usually hail any fellow traveller met on the road – even a poor excuse for one such as this – but he finds himself reluctant to. It seems to defeat the point of his journey, after all, to risk falling into conversation by doing so, and he’s unwilling to subject some unfortunate stranger to the slow-fading remnants of his anger besides.  
  
He resolves to turn back, to go another way, but too slowly it seems, as he must have inadvertently given some hint of his presence.  
  
The figure raises its head, and then nods it once in greeting. Gwynedd is relieved to see it is Pictland, as he seems perfectly content that the only words they ever exchange with one another are their names.  
  
He offers Gwynedd’s now, in that thunder-rough voice of his, and Gwynedd gives him his own back in return.  
  
But then Pictland breaks all the rules that Gwynedd had been given to understand – through experience if naught else – he’d constructed to govern all their interactions, and walks towards him. He seems cautious about doing so, eyes downcast and step hesitant, but he approaches all the same.  
  
When he comes within arm’s reach, he says, “I caught a rabbit in one of my traps.”  
  
“Oh,” says Gwynedd, wondering why this, out of everything else Pictland might have had cause to say to him but never did, has made him to break his silence. He has, Gwynedd presumes, caught many rabbits in many traps over the months they have spent together in Gododdin’s land, and he’s never seen fit to announce his successes before. “Good for you.”  
  
“Not so good for the rabbit,” Pictland says, which Gwynedd thinks is also something so self-evident that it doesn’t need to be stated, but his true meaning becomes clearer when Pictland inclines his head downward and Gwynedd notices he has one hand cupped close against his chest. “This one’s too wee for eating, but it’s broken its leg anyway.”  
  
He shifts his broad fingers slightly, and Gwynedd can see one wide, black eye peering out between them.  
  
“It’s probably kinder to break its neck in any case.” Gwynedd’s sure that Pictland must have considered that already, even though the way he’s cradling it to his breast suggests otherwise. “It won’t survive for long in that state. A hawk will soon carry it off, or a fox.”  
  
“I know,” Pictland says, rubbing his thumb along the length of one of the rabbit’s ears when it curls up above the edge of his palm. His touch must be gentler than the massive spread of his hand suggests, as the little creature does not startle at it. “I just thought…”  
  
He pauses, lower lip caught between his teeth, and his brow creases with what Gwynedd thinks might be unease. “I met your mam a few times when I was a wean,” he says eventually.  
  
Gwynedd isn’t sure whether the statement discombobulates him more because it’s a revelation to him or a complete non sequitur. Either way, he can’t think of anything to say in the wake of it other than, “You did?”  
  
“Aye, you too, though you hadn’t even learnt to walk back then so you probably don’t remember it.” Pictland’s eyes grow distant, and something that looks almost like the beginning of a smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. Gwynedd cannot be sure of that, though, as he’s never seen the like before. “She always gave me something to eat or sup, and invited me to sit by her fire. She even tried to untangle my hair once with this pretty white comb she had, but she soon gave up on that. She did mend my brat, though; I’d caught it on a patch of brambles and ripped it near straight across when I pulled it free. I didn’t know how to do it before, you ken, because no-one had ever taught me how, but she made sure I watched her work so I could do it myself if it ever happened again.”  
  
Gwynedd has never heard Pictland say so much at once before, not to anyone, and he finds himself transfixed by the words, barely remembering to blink or even breathe. Pictland’s voice grows ever smoother the longer he speaks, and it makes Gwynedd question whether the growl he usually hears in it is simply due to disuse and not Pictland’s natural tone.  
  
“Anyway,” Pictand says more firmly, seemingly coming back from memory’s road and joining Gwynedd in the present again, “I never had much of that, but you did, so you’re probably better at taking care of things than I could ever be.”  
  
Gwynedd’s never heard that hopeful note in Pictland’s voice, either, and he finds himself flustered enough by it that he accepts the rabbit without question when Pictland holds it out for him to take.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
By the time the moon has waxed and then waned again, the rabbit’s leg has healed and its body has almost doubled in size.  
  
“Big enough to eat now, I reckon,” Alt Clut observes on more than one occasion whilst he watches it hop across Gwynedd’s bedchamber.  
  
But Gwynedd does not wish to, even though the rabbit drops its pellets all over his bedclothes and nibbles on Elmet’s spare truis. Nor can he countenance setting it free once more, even though Rheged begs him to, in order to save it from the pot.  
  
He is unsure why.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
Gwynedd whiles away most of the long, dark hours of winter in sleep, huddled against Alt Clut with Rheged curled around his back.  
  
The approach of spring is not as welcome as it might usually be, however, as it is heralded by a message from the Angles, written in violence across Gododdin’s face.  
  
“Your meeting with Bernicia didn’t go well, then,” Elmet observes when he returns to them with a split lip and both eyes blackened.  
  
“It did not, brawd,” Gododdin says, spitting a gob of blood to the floor, along with another of his teeth. “He intends to advance before the season turns again, I think, and here we all are, sitting idle and growing fat with it. We need to start preparing for battle in earnest.”  
  
So the next day finds Gwynedd bound inside leather armour, a wooden shield on his arm and a blunted practice sword on the ground more often than it is ever in his hand.  
  
He launches himself after it as it skitters away from him for the third time that morning, but his fingers barely brush the pommel before Gododdin brings the blade of his own sword to bear against Gwynedd’s bared neck.  
  
“You’re dead. Again,” Gododdin says, resting one foot against the small of Gwynedd’s back. “I don’t think you’re even trying now, Gwyn.”  
  
And because Gwynedd _is_ still trying, he finds himself too ashamed to answer, and simply bucks and twists his body until Gododdin is forced to back away far enough that Gwynedd can haul himself up into a sitting position.  
  
His knees, shoulders, and thighs all ache; even his belly is sore, where he’s sure there are dark bruises blooming in the shape of Gododdin’s fists. The palms of his hands are smarting, chafed raw by the unwrapped hilt of the sword, but he still lifts them to rub at his neck, trying to chase away the fresh hurt which has settled there.  
  
“He’s much more skilled with the bow,” he hears Alt Clut say, if only very faintly over the sound of bells pealing in his ears.  
  
“I should hope so,” Pictland’s voice rumbles in reply.  
  
A ripple of laughter follows his comment, birthing a sudden desire within Gwynedd to crumble into dust and then blow away on the breeze.  
  
His obstinate body fails to comply, and eventually he has no choice but  to raise his bowed head and struggle to his feet, if only because he thinks he will look like a petulant child sulking over his defeat if he does not.  
  
He sees that quite a sizeable crowd had gathered unnoticed whilst he sparred with Gododdin, one comprised chiefly of his brothers’ warriors, but there are also a few of his own dotted amongst them, looking deeply embarrassed to a man. Whether for themselves or their Kingdom, Gwynedd could not say, but he knows the deep flush of Alt Clut’s face is more likely caused by his anger over the scorn aimed towards Gwynedd rather than any shame concerning their shared blood.  
  
“He can shoot out a crow’s eye from over a league away, whether it is roosting or in flight,” Alt Clut insists to Pictland, and although Gwynedd appreciates the enthusiasm of his brother’s defence, the overestimation of his abilities makes him cringe a little, especially once Pictland raises an eyebrow in obvious disbelief.

“I’m not quite that good,” Gwynedd says, but his objection only serves to make Pictland look even more sceptical.  
  
“If you’re even _half_ that good I’d like to see it,” he says, unhooking his bow from his shoulder and holding it out to Gwynedd. “Show me.”

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
“Perhaps I should not have pressed to make it into a contest,” Pictland grumbles as he picks his spent arrows up from where they lay scattered across the rough ground. The fifth he retrieves is grey-fletched, one of Gwynedd’s own, and this he holds aloft with a look of satisfaction. “Though your win was not clean; you did miss your target once.”  
  
A crow had swooped down low in front of Gwynedd as he prepared to loose that last shot, and he’d only just managed to keep from hitting it, the jerk of his hand sending the arrow arcing wide.  
  
“Despite what my brother told you, I’m not in the habit of shooting crows,” he says. “I do not think it wise to displease them, especially not now.”  
  
That it was there at all seems foreboding enough. Crows never carry good luck with them, only the bad, and he has to wonder if its flight was meant to curse him or give him warning.

In any case, he resolves to treat with the fae come nightfall, and beg their help in strengthening the few protective spells he knows.  
  
Pictland nods his agreement, though his eyes never once lift from his contemplation of the head of Gwynedd’s arrow, slow-spinning as he twirls its shaft between his thumb and forefinger. Eventually, he adds, “My aim is better with a sling.”  
  
“So is mine,” Gwynedd says without thinking. “I’ve been using one for far longer than the bow.”  
  
It’s only after he’s said the words that Gwynedd realises how boastful they must sound, when it is too late to take them back. Though he wishes he could, as he imagines they must be fit for naught but to bring shame to Pictland, given how thoroughly he’d just been routed.  
  
If Pictland is shamed at all, he must take great care for it not to be made plain his expression, as the only change in his countenance is a slight kink at one corner of his mouth; the one Gwynedd had seen but once before and thought might be the beginnings of a smile.  
  
“Then perhaps we should have our rematch with swords in hand,” he suggests.  
  
Gwynedd had thought the pitting of their archery skills merely a friendly competition, and so it had appeared, but it seems that Pictland may see his defeat as a blow that has knocked some balance he perceived between them askew; one that he clearly wishes to redress and quickly.  
  
Nevertheless, Gwynedd cannot imagine that Pictland’s concern would be assuaged by beating him at swordplay. “You saw me fighting Gododdin,” he says, shaking his head. “I might as well concede to you before we even begin.”  
  
It would be a hollow victory, at best.  
  
“True enough.” The rough wheeze of breath that escapes Pictland’s lips sounds something like laughter. He frowns for a time, obviously giving the matter some thought, and then finally he asks, “How good are you at knucklebones?”

 

 

* * *

 

  
Gododdin has taken to drinking more heavily of an evening now, and when he is deep in his cups, his bravado grows.  
  
“Why stop at defending ourselves?” he is apt to ask of them, fist slamming down hard on the banqueting table, making their trenchers jump and shudder afore them. “We could retake Ebrauc from the bastards, and from there, The Peak and Dunoting. We could send them running with their tails between their legs like the dogs they are and reunite the North once more!”  
  
More often than not, Rheged and Elmet would eventually join their voices to his, seemingly swept along by his fervour and buoyed by his belief.  
  
But Gwynedd has heard the owls calling nightly near the hall, seen a white hare running often on the hillside beyond, and the gaps in Gododdin’s smile still have yet to fill.  
  
His brothers’ shouts sound more like the defiance of men who know that they might soon die, railing against their fate to the end.

 

 

* * *

 

  
One night, not long before midsummer, Rheged wakes from sleep with a scream.  
  
He sits up in his bedclothes, one hand splayed across his chest whilst the other claws blindly at the air as though clutching for something unseen. Even in the faint moonlight and with sleep-dimmed eyes, Gwynedd can see that the blood has drained from his brother’s face, leaving it wraith-pale.  
  
“It wasn’t Gododdin they were after,” he says into the dark, voice hitching brokenly as he pants as though trying to catch his breath. “It was _me_. They’ve taken Catreath.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

**597; Kingdom of Gododdin**

 

The next morning, they muster their forces ready to march on Catreath.  
  
Gwynedd’s horse is restive, stamping its hooves and tossing its head so violently that it almost rips the reins from his hands more than once, but Gwynedd finds he can do little to calm it. The soft words he tries to offer break in his mouth, falling jagged and harsh from his lips, and the comforting hand he lays on its neck shakes so powerfully that he cannot hold it still.  
  
He knows his own nervousness is merely a dull mirror of his men’s own fear of the battle ahead, for his own lands are secure, his own health unthreatened.  
  
Rheged must actually be in fear for his own life, and yet he sits straight and proud atop his own horse; the only outward sign of his disquiet the blood smeared across his bottom lip where he has worried it with his teeth.  
  
“They will write songs about today.” Alt Clut’s words tear unexpectedly through the silence that had fallen across them all like a pall. “How courageously we faced what we know is to come.”  
  
Gwynedd looks askance at his brother, because such a pronouncement seems unwise to voice in front of Rheged; almost callous. They are but few in number, and the Angles' gains in recent years have encircled his northern brothers, effectively cutting them off from the rest of the Cymry to the west. They cannot rely on any of their other brothers or sisters riding to their aid now, and it seems callous of Alt Clut to risk raising Rheged’s hope that their odds are better than they are.  
  
Still, Gwynedd knows his brother’s heart well, and has never seen any cruelty in it. Gwynedd trusts him enough that he holds his own tongue, believing he must have some other reason to say what he did.  
  
“I can almost hear them now: ‘Brave Alt Clut rode with them,’” Alt Clut continues, his voice becoming lilting like a bard’s, “bear-stout and fair of face—“

“Stout?” Gododdin breaks in, his top lip curling derisively. “Only when you’re in a dream’s clutches, Alt. ‘Brave Alt Clut, as thin as a sapling’s branch and as easy to break in twain,’ would be more fitting, I think.”  
  
Alt Clut grins at the insult, and quickly returns: “Intrepid Gododdin, his sword arm may be strong, but his head is full of wool.”  
  
He is trying to raise their spirits by engaging them in one of their oldest sports. It’s doubtless well-meant, but bound to be fruitless, as neither Elmet nor especially Rheged look to be in the mood to take any comfort from such friendly taunting as they usually would.  
  
“Daring Rheged,” Elmet says, however, quickly proving Gwynedd wrong, “needs no weapon other than his voice to fell his enemies, for he bores them all to sleep.”  
  
Rheged’s voice is little more than a faint whisper, cracking like caught kindling in his throat, but after frowning at Elmet, he still manages to add, “Elmet, resolute because he does not have the wits to know when he is beaten.” His unfocused gaze swings towards Gwynedd. “And heroic Gwynedd may even fell a man or two if he can keep a hold upon his sword.”  
  
Caught up with the cadence of their back and forth, Gwynedd turns to Pictland, and begins, “And Pictland…”  
  
Pictland’s dark eyes are flat and hard, his expression even harder, and the words Gwynedd was about to speak wither on his tongue half-formed. Pictland has never shown any inclination to join in with any of their jokes, and would no doubt consider ill-timed any attempt to include him now.  
  
Gwynedd shifts his attention to Alt Clut instead, thinking to bring their game full circle, but before he can even think of a new line, Pictland says, “And Pictland is the bravest of them all, for he always gives his enemies the advantage, of hearing his feet wherever they fall.”  
  
It’s so close to the quip that Gwynedd was about to make himself that it shocks laughter out of him, too abrupt for him to subdue entirely no matter how swift the palm he raises to his mouth in order to smother it.  
  
Pictland watches his struggles to regain his composure with obvious bemusement. “I’m a big bastard and I’ll never have a dancer’s grace, I’m not surprised that you’ve noticed,” he says, shrugging. “Nor that you want to laugh about it. I don’t mind.”  
  
Even with permission, Gwynedd cannot bring himself to drop his hand. Pictland has never struck him as the kind of person who takes kindly to having fun poked at him, and Gwynedd can’t help but think that he might simply be allowing it for Rheged’s benefit now. The fact that his lips have not curved into even one of his strange half-smiles only seems to confirm that he does not take the same pleasure from holding himself up to ridicule that the rest of them do.  
  
Alt Clut appears to have no such misgivings. He chuckles heartily, and even reaches out as if he might pat Pictland companionably on his back when their horses edge closer together. His courage seems to leave him at the last on that score, though, and his arm quickly falls back down to his side.  
  
His smile remains undimmed, regardless, and he cheerfully announces, “Now I think we should weave tales of the victories we are sure to find on the battlefield.”

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
The first gasp of air Gwynedd takes when he returns to wakefulness stinks of copper and shit.  
  
He can taste his own sweat and metal on the second, and the rotten egg putrescence of old magic on the third.  
  
Awareness of his own body comes more slowly, the sharp pain in his side masking the smaller twinges of pulled muscles and sore joints, which he can only resolve as distinct from one another after a moment’s quiet concentration.  
  
He wriggles his fingers and then his toes, and when he’s reassured that all of his limbs are intact, he tries opening his eyes.  
  
And sees nothing but blackness.  
  
“I’m blind,” he says dully. Gwent had been blinded in battle once, and taken but a month to recover her sight, and so the admittance does not concern him as much as the sound of his own voice. It’s raw and hoarse, as though he might have been screaming for longer than his throat could bear.  
  
Gwynedd cannot remember doing so; cannot remember anything beyond the first time his sword crossed that of an Angle. The absence is troubling.  
  
“You’re not blind,” someone says. It sounds like Pictland, though that seems at odds with the lightness of the hand which is briefly placed on his brow. “You just have blood in your eyes.”  
  
“Blood?” Gwynedd echoes, confused. He had sensed no injury to his head when he had performed his mental inventory of his body earlier, and when he runs his hand over it to check, he cannot feel one, either.  
  
“Not your own,” Pictland tells him, pressing something cold and damp against Gwynedd’s face. He scrubs briskly, paying no heed to Gwynedd’s protests at his skin’s resulting sting, nor his weak attempts to push him aside. “It took me the best part of the day to find you, because you were buried beneath a pile of limbs about ten deep.”  
  
Pictland’s ministrations may not be gentle, but they are at least effective, and Gwynedd’s vision soon returns, albeit substantially blurry around the edges. Pictland sits back on his haunches then and drops the cloth he had been using, leaving Gwynedd alone to the grim task of cleaning the gore that has clotted his eyelashes together.  
  
“You fight like a man possessed,” Pictland continues, his gruff voice holding a note of something that sounds a little like admiration. “Went after those bastards with nothing but your bare hands and teeth half the time.”  
  
There is skin and hair trapped under each one of his nails, Gwynedd notes when he glances down at them.  
  
“I’m sometimes taken like that when I’m in battle.”  
  
Gwynedd’s often wondered if some outside force _does_ take him over whenever he’s angry, frightened or desperate enough for true rage to descend. It happens only very rarely, but all who have seen him thus have said much the same as Pictland: that he does not seem like himself in those moments. Gwynedd could not say, because he’s always left with the same blank spot in his memory afterwards as he has now.  
  
“I like to think it makes up for my deficiencies with the sword,” he quips weakly, which makes Pictland huff out a single, sharp breath of laughter.  
  
“Aye, I think it might,” he says, but any levity that might have momentarily softened his face is quick to fade. “Didn’t do us much good, though.”  
  
“We lost?” Gwynedd sits and then looks around himself hurriedly, but there’s naught to see. Wherever it is that Pictland has dragged him to is clearly far from the battlefield, and only the faint smell of death on the breeze and the calls of the ravens flocking thick in the air above a hill several leagues away give any hint of the slaughter which must have occurred somewhere nearby. “Is my brother…?”  
  
Gwynedd can’t bring himself to finish the question.  
  
From his long pause, the way he drums his fingers anxiously against his broad thigh, it seems as though Pictland is just as reluctant to give him an answer.  
  
After a long moment, though, he draws a deep breath, and says, “Gododdin’s lost a few more teeth and one of his fingers, and they almost gutted Elmet, though he’s up and complaining about the ruin of his best armour already. Rheged…” Pictland’s next breath is even longer, and he sighs it out slowly, as though in a futile attempt to delay sharing the news he knows he must give. “Rheged sleeps so deeply that we fear he might never wake.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**597; Kingdom of Gododdin**  
  
  
Gwynedd doesn’t think to wonder why Pictland had not mentioned the state of Alt Clut’s health until the very moment he first catches sight of his brother awaiting their arrival outside Gododdin’s king’s hall and he sees the ruin that has been made of his face.  
  
Even then, he assumes that the omission had been designed to soothe rather than harm, because despite Pictland’s habitual gruffness and grim countenance, he has never betrayed any real malice; his cruelty is all in his appearance, Gwynedd continues to hope, and not a revelation of his true character.  
  
But no matter how kindly meant the attempt might have been, Gwynedd wishes Pictland had thought better of making it, because his surprise is consequently so great that it freezes both his tongue and his limbs, and he can only stare, silent and immobile, until Alt Clut limps forward and pulls him from his horse and into a tight, desperate embrace.  
  
“We were beginning to think that you must have fallen like… Like Rheged did,” he says, pressing his ragged cheek against the crook of Gwynedd’s neck.  
  
Gwynedd cups the back his brother’s head in one hand and pulls him yet closer with the other, hoping to reassure him that he’s both solid and unharmed. “I did fall, but Pictland tells me that the Angles were kind enough to scatter enough of their limbs below me to soften my landing.”  
  
“How thoughtful; maybe we’ve misjudged them.” Alt Clut’s laughter is low and thin, little more than a wheeze of stirred air, and quick to fade into a sigh. He gently disentangles himself from Gwynedd’s arms, stepping back as he says, “I should send word with one of my men to Gododdin and Elmet; let them know you’ve been found. They’re out there still, digging through corpses in search of you.”  
  
“I’ll go,” Pictland says, and the sudden sound of his voice makes Gwynedd’s heart leap jarringly in his chest. He’d almost forgotten the other kingdom was there. “Your men need their rest more than I do.”  
  
He doesn’t wait for either an agreement or thanks before wheeling his horse around. Alt Clut watches him canter away in the direction of the distant battlefield with what looks to be bemusement.  
  
“He hasn’t stopped for a moment since the battle ended,” he says, still frowning. “Rushing hither and thither, giving orders and tending wounds. He was the one that organised the search for you, too, you know, and he ended up dragging Gododdin and Elmet from their beds to help him because he couldn’t seem to bear to wait for a moment longer, in the end. I would have come too, but a fucking Angle damn near castrated me and I think it’ll be a good long while before I can sit astride a horse again.”  
  
That admission drives all thoughts of Pictland immediately from Gwynedd’s mind and causes him to study his brother more closely. His attention had been so riveted by the wound that had almost cleaved Alt Clut’s face in two that he had missed the telltale signs of even more heinous injuries that must lay hidden beneath his clothes: the unevenness of his posture, the laxness of the fingers on his left hand, and the extra bulk around his middle, suggesting bandages wound from nipple to groin.  
  
“You need healing,” he says, reaching out anxiously towards his brother.  
  
Alt Clut shies away from him. “Save your magic for Rheged. He has more need of it than I do.”  


 

* * *

  
  
  
If Rheged were human, he would be thought too young to go into battle alongside warriors – they all would, perhaps – but still he has not looked so much like a child for many years. He looks impossibly small to Gwynedd, practically lost inside the nest of furs that is serving as his sick bed. Only his head is visible, sallow-skinned but unblemished save for a yellowing bruise at his temple.  
  
His expression is peaceful, his breathing regular, and it would be easy enough to believe he was only sleeping except that he doesn’t even stir when Gwynedd takes hold of his hand.  
  
Rheged has always been a light sleeper before.  
  
Alt Clut moves in closer, leaning his weight against Gwynedd’s shoulder. “Do you think he might –” He clearly doesn’t want to speak the next, horribly inevitable word, and swallows it down with such violent haste that it almost makes him retch.  
  
Gwynedd doesn’t want to hear it anyway. “I don’t think so,” he says, shaking his head.  
  
Very few of their kind die quickly, especially of late. Even if their own kingdoms have been destroyed entirely, they linger on for a generation or two, fading along with the memories of the children or grandchildren of people who were once their own to eventually be born anew, if they’re fortunate, as some small part of their replacement.  
  
Catreath may have been taken, but the rest of Rheged’s lands remain his own. It was a grievous blow, but not a deadly one, Gwynedd needs very much to believe, because there remains the chance that that which is not yet broken irrecoverably can be repaired.  
  
He traces runes across the clammy skin of his brother’s forehead, binding the spell with every name Rheged has borne since the first, and then channels so much magic through it that his palms begin to char and blister.  
  
Healing spells need subtlety alongside power as the body is a stubborn thing, and cannot be forced to reshape itself, only persuaded. Gwynedd doesn’t have nearly enough cunning to work them well.  
  
Rheged sleeps on unperturbed by his efforts  
  
“I can’t do anything else,” he has to admit finally, once the skin of his arms starts to split and his pain becomes sharp enough to rend through his concentration entirely. “I just don’t have the skill for this. I’m sure Dyfed would be able to do more. Perhaps we could –“  
  
“There’s no point asking; Dyfed wouldn’t come, would he?” Alt Clut says, though he sounds more resigned than angry. “The rest of the Cymry think we’re as good as dead already. They’ve given up on us.”  
  
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Gwynedd says, but he’s ruefully aware that his reassurance likely rings hollow. “They would be here if they could, Alt.”  
  
Their kind’s hearts and minds might be free to love and hate where they wish, but their bodies belong to their people. Their brothers and sisters might well long to give aid to their Northern kin, but if their kings do not see the benefit in it, then Alt Clut is right, they will not come. No matter how often he tries to deceive himself otherwise, Gwynedd knows _he_ is only able to remain here by the grace of his own king, and must perforce return home as soon as he is recalled.  
  
He fears that will be sooner than he would like.  
  
“Some of them, maybe,” Alt Clut says, smirking slightly, “but I very much doubt Dyfed would be amongst their number, in any case.”

 

 

* * *

  
  
   
Gwynedd could not say how long it takes for Elmet and Gododdin return because each moment he remains at Rheged’s bedside is filled with exactly the same fear, rendering them indistinguishable from one another, and thus the days soon blend together, passing uncounted.  
  
Their appearance is just as shocking and unexpected as their arrival had been, because their wounds, too, are far more serious than Pictland had lead him to believe.  
  
Only Gododdin’s fang teeth remain, above and below, and he has been left with but one thumb and two fingers between both his hands. Elmet’s is forced to clasp Gwynedd’s shoulder in greeting because he cannot speak one with his throat slashed from ear to ear.  
  
“It’s clear I can’t trust anything Pictland tells me,” Gwynedd grumbles. “I don’t know what he was trying to achieve, but he did give me the impression that you’d all made it through relatively unscathed, at least in comparison to…” Words fail him, and for a while he can only wave his hand feebly towards his brothers in demonstration. “Well, to _this_.”  
  
“He thinks you’re too soft for the truth,” Alt Clut says, chuckling.  
  
Despite everything, Gwynedd finds himself insulted by the insinuation. “I could maybe forgive him for that before, but he’s seen me fight properly now, hasn’t he? Surely he couldn’t still think that after the battle.”  
  
Gododdin starts laughing, as well. “Not that sort of soft, Gwyn,” he says, the words a little garbled and indistinct. “The sort that worries far too much over things he can’t change.”  
  
Gwynedd cannot refute it, because that much is true. He is worried; worried for all of them.  


 

* * *

  
  
  
Mere moments after Gwynedd manages to coax his brothers into finding fresh honey and bandages for their wounds, he hears the unmistakable clomp of Pictland’s footsteps approaching Rheged’s chamber.  
  
Pride still stinging from Alt Clut’s earlier revelation, Gwynedd would have gladly ignored him, but Pictland makes it impossible for him to pretend any unawareness by immediately announcing his presence.  
  
“Has there been any change?” he asks from the doorway, obviously unsure of his welcome.  
  
Gwynedd is glad of that. “None,” he says sharply and with enough finality, he hopes, that it will be clear that he does not desire any further conversation.  
  
Pictland, however, is either oblivious to the hint, or else determined enough to continue that he chooses to ignore it. “Are you –” He breaks off suddenly with a frustrated-sounding growl. “I’m sorry, for you and for him, but I have absolutely no fucking clue what else to say.”  
  
Gwynedd’s irritation withers away; he simply doesn’t have sufficient energy to sustain it, apparently, in the face of even the clumsiest of attempts at concern.  
  
“It’s all right,” he says, exhaling the words on a sigh, “I have no idea what I want to hear, either.”  
  
Pictland looks relieved, and for an instant, Gwynedd thinks that will be an end to it; that Pictland’s said his piece – meagre though it may be – assuaged whatever small anxiety had prompted this overture, and will thus leave again in short order.  
  
But though he hesitates briefly, Pictland does eventually enter the chamber, and thereafter is quick to crouch down next to Gwynedd at Rheged’s bedside.  
  
“I just… I can’t imagine what you all must be feeling,” he says, voice hushed even though he must know that there’s no chance of him waking Rheged. “My brother and I… Well, we’re not exactly close, and I’ve never had any other family that I can remember.”  
  
“I didn’t even know you had a brother,” Gwynedd has to admit.  
  
“I would be more surprised if you did.” The corners of Pictland’s mouth curl upwards slightly. “He’s not really one for company.”  
  
Something the two of them have in common, Gwynedd supposes, from what little he does know of Pictland’s habits.  
  
And that knowledge spurs him to say, “Well, I am, and I’m glad of yours, but please don’t feel as though you have to say anything. I’m quite happy to sit here in silence as long as you are.”  
  
The jittery, nervous movements of Pictland’s fingers stop instantly, and Gwynedd can see relaxation sink through his body as though in a wave: from the grateful slump of his shoulders all the way down to the untensing of the long muscles in his thighs.  
  
Soon, it’s almost as though Gwynedd is alone again, the illusion shattered only by the faint warmth and light press of Pictland’s arm against his own, brought together without design as they both lean in towards Rheged.  
  
Gwynedd unexpectedly finds it very peaceful.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a very draining past couple of months for me...
> 
> Finally got enough spare time to work on fic again, and this ensued. As I was writing it, I realised that it's pointless to continue thinking of it as unconnected to FtF, as I've included enough of the kingdom stuff herein in the series by now that my attempts to keep them separate are pretty much moot (and, indeed, several things Wales has said in the course of FtF don't make much sense without it).
> 
> So, having moved it into FtF...

* * *

 

**Circa 630; Erstwhile Kingdom of Elmet, now Kingdom of Northumbria**  
  
  


 

Gwynedd's eyes and concern have been so firmly fixed on Rheged of late that he does not realise how much of a shade Elmet has become until his brother has naught but a breath of life left in him.  
  
He should have known, regardless, as Northumbria had taken all that was once Elmet's decades ago. He has no king, no lands, no people, and his body is built from naught but memories. There is not one person left alive who was born to Elmet alone, and as the elders' stories began to pass out of history and into myth, even those memories started to unravel.  
  
He should have known what it meant when Elmet's skin started to turn translucent and grey; when his hands began to tremble uncontrollably and his movements slowed. It was so easy to forget, however, as Elmet has never spoken about his passing as Rheged does, never cried out in terror or railed against his fate. His temper has remained sanguine, his words few, just as it has ever been.  
  
And his smile is just as broad when he greets Gwynedd at the door to his small roundhouse, even though his lips are tinged blue and his toothless gums are raw.  
  
"Your visit is well-timed, _brawd_ ," he says, clutching Gwynedd's shoulder with a claw-like hand. "If you'd left it another sennight, you likely would have had to let yourself in."  
  
Gwynedd's heart turns over sickeningly in his chest. "So soon?" he says, more to himself than Elmet, but his brother hears him all the same.  
  
"It will be a wonder if I make it through the night. Though I've believed that every day for the last month at least, and still I wake come morning. My luck must be stronger than ere I thought."  
  
He chuckles dryly, but Gwynedd cannot share the jest. He has never found any humour in death; never laughed at the bleak jokes his warriors trade back and forth in the tense, fearful moments before battle.  
  
"I should send the fae to call for our brothers." He catches hold of Elmet's other hand, and holds it flat between his two palms. It's corpse-cold and feels as sharp and brittle as a bundle of twigs. "They should be here to—"  
  
Elmet cuts him short with a snort of derision. "I don't want any fuss, Gwyn," he says, voice firm despite his rattling breath. "They all know what is coming for me, and they've all been and paid their final respects. You are the last of them."  
  
The guilt strikes Gwynedd between the ribs even more painfully than his sorrow had. He's been so busy with the Cymry in the west this past year that he's neglected the rest of his kin intolerably.  
  
Even worse, he only began his northward journey because he could not bear to see another season turn without paying a visit to Alt Clut. He hadn't spared a thought for Elmet, and had stopped by solely out of a sullen sense of familial duty, and, at the time, had resented the few days' delay it would perforce cause in his travels.  
  
If he'd given in to his selfish desire to see Alt Clut as soon as he was able, he would have denied himself the chance to say his farewells to his brother.  
  
The knowledge of how close he came to robbing them both of that dubious joy chills him.  
  
"Come and sit with me by the fire," Elmet says. He lets go of Gwynedd's shoulder and gestures towards his hearth. His joints creak like unoiled leather. "Tell me everything that's happened to you since last we met. I want to forget about myself for a while."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Elmet rises with the sun on the second day of Gwynedd's visit, and with its setting on the third.  
  
On the fourth day, Gwynedd looks towards his bed as soon as he awakes, but it is empty.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Gwynedd cannot recall what message he asked the fae to carry with them. It was probably nothing more than meaningless anguish and despair, but he knows that his brothers will understand it well enough, nonetheless.  
  
As he waits for their replies, he busies himself with tidying Elmet's small home so he doesn't have chance to dwell on how empty it is now. How quiet.  
  
Because Elmet's house was never silent, despite his conversation being sparse even in better years. He always had his whittling knife and a chunk of wood in hand, so although their voices often fell silent for a spell, the air was still filled with his busy chipping and scraping.  
  
Gwynedd finds his latest – his last – creation, tucked behind the woodpile. As ever, it's a winged beast with wings, scales, sharp teeth and claws; almost a dragon or a snake or a bird, but it doesn't resemble any one of them closely enough that it can easily be given a name.  
  
Only Elmet could ever hope to bring sense to its tortured shape, and he will not...  
  
Gwynedd's eyes prickle with tears yet again, and his hands begin to shake so hard that he's afeared he might drop the carving. It would doubtless shatter against the hard-packed floor, and he'd never be able to put it to rights afterwards, so he carefully places it back where he had found it.  
  
He deliberately turns his back, then, and applies himself with some vigour to sorting through Elmet's meagre store of clothing.  
  
His mind soon fills up with thoughts of fur and wool and the repairs that would need to be made before they're gifted whomsoever of their kin who might have need of them, and, distantly, he's grateful for the distraction they provide.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
On the fifth or sixth or seventh day, there is a knock at the door.  
  
Gwynedd answers it eagerly, expecting to find one of his brothers without, but what small cheer he's been able to muster disintegrates in an instant when he discovers himself face-to-face with Northumbria.  
  
He's slimmer than Gwynedd remembers him being, and his eyes have begun to lighten with Angle grey. His nose is snubbed at the end, just like Elmet's had been.  
  
And his tone is flatter, drawn out in an achingly familiar drawl, as he says, "Brother."  
   
Gwynedd's stomach spasms, bile flooding his mouth. "I don't deny you the right to claim me  as such," he manages to gasp out, "but, please... Please, not now. Not yet."  
   
"I understand." Northumbria gives an economical nod of his head. "Perhaps I will visit you when you return to your own lands?"  
   
"Perhaps," Gwynedd says, and he's startled to find that the prospect fills him with more anticipation than dread.  
   
It may be too soon for him to readily embrace the kingdom as a brother, but he feels that tie all the same. For all that it's faint at the moment, he knows it will grow stronger as Elmet fades away from the world in truth, and all that he was entwines himself inextricably with  Northumbria.  
   
In time, he will supplant him almost entirely in Gwynedd's recollections – as is the way of their kind – but he is not yet ready for that process to start.  
   
He resents Northumbria quite enough for the moment as it is.

  
   
 

* * *

  
   
   
   
On the eighth or the ninth or the tenth day, Alt Clut arrives, and Gwynedd lets himself cry for the first time.  
   
Alt Clut pulls him close, holds him tight, and he feels so solid and warm against Gwynedd's chest that his sobs come all the harsher.  
   
When both of their throats and eyes have burned dry and there are no tears left in them to  shed, Gwynedd can say, "I'm glad you are here, _brawd_ ," with true warmth. "Though of course I wish we could have met next in happier times."  
  
"I'm sorry you had to be alone with this for so long, Gwyn," Alt Clut says, burying his face deeper into the crook of Gwynedd's neck. "I never thought I would be the first to arrive. I would have tried to get here even faster if I'd known."  
  
"You weren't the first," Gwynedd tells him; slowly and cautiously, as he suspects Alt Clut will not care to hear what he has to say. "Northumbria stopped by several days ago."  
  
Predictably, Alt Clut stiffens in Gwynedd's arms, his entire body drawing as taut as a bow string. "What did that bastard want? Did he come to gloat?"  
  
"No, he came to offer his sympathy. As our brother."  
  
"Bah." Alt Clut wrenches himself away from Gwynedd, his fists clenched and his brow darkened by an ugly scowl. "He's not _my_ brother. He'll _never_ be my brother. I'll never forget that Elmet had to die so _he_ could grow stronger."  
  
He sounds determined, vehement, and Gwynedd has no doubts that he means every word now.  
  
But that will pass. He will both forget and forgive in due course.  
  
They all will.  
  
 

* * *

  
   
   
Elmet's hitherto snug little roundhouse seems forlorn now that all of Gwynedd's kin have left it, and cavernous since they picked it clean.  
  
Still, he cannot bring himself to leave. By night, he sleeps in a nest of straw like a dog, by day, he scavenges for nuts and berries nearby, and then, come evening, sits cross-legged beside a fire-pit which has long since grown cold, eating them raw by the handful.  
  
Like the uneasy spirits that sometimes swarm around battlefields and their own barrows, he haunts the old bones of his brother's life, unwilling to move on; tethered to the stones and thatch by his grief and guilt.  
  
On a day unnumbered, a figure approaches Gwynedd as he is picking the last of the blackberries from the bramble thicket in the little hollow beside Elmet's home.  
  
Though their bowed head and wind-tousled hair hides their features from him, the slow, measured cadence of their step is unmistakable, even from a distance. Gwynedd feels sick and light-headed, curious and resentful, all in such equal measures and so deeply entwined that he cannot unpick one thought or emotion from another and call it true.  
  
Such confusion binds both his tongue and his feet, and he finds himself unable to move or voice even a single word of greeting. Pictland seems insensible to this lack of civility, however, and walks past him and into the roundhouse without acknowledging his presence with so much as a glance.  
  
A moment later, smoke begins to curl from the building's open door. After another, the rich smell of cooking game joins it, and Gwynedd's stomach rouses into a growling life that has not stirred within him for many days.  
  
Pure animal instinct guides him to follow the scent inside, where he finds Pictland crouched next to a new-built fire, tending a spit upon which two skinned and gutted rabbits are speared.  
  
"I hope you don't mind," Pictland says, "but I've walked far enough this morning to work up a fierce appetite. Mayhap you'd like to join me in breaking my fast?"  
  
It seems crass to be taking any pleasure here, even one as simple as roasted meat, but Gwynedd's stomach rumbles again, voicing its own, undeniable answer before he has chance to demur.  
  
Pictland's quick ears clearly pick up on the sound, despite the quelling hand Gwynedd lays over his belly in an effort to muffle it. "Sit then," he says, patting the floor beside him. "How long is it since you last had a hot meal?"  
  
"I... I cannot recall," Gwynedd admits. "Time has rather run away from me, I fear."  
  
"Aye," Pictland says, and then no more.  
  
The only sound for a long while is the hiss and spit of the flames and the slow grinding of the spit as Pictland turns it. When the rabbits are cooked to his satisfaction, he hands one to Gwynedd in silence, and in silence they begin to eat.  
  
The hunger that has so lately awakened in Gwynedd proves vicious and unruly, and he tears into the hot flesh like a dumb beast, fat dribbling, unheeded, down his chin. Once he has picked every last scrap of meat from the carcass, he breaks open the thin bones and sucks out their marrow.  
  
"You've been here on your own for over two months," Pictland says as he watches Gwynedd cast the now hollow bones onto the fire.  
  
"Two months?" Gwynedd echoes, disbelieving. If pressed, he would have said it could not possibly have been more than a fortnight. How could he have forgotten his duties so thoroughly? "My king—"  
  
"Is clamouring for your return, or so I've heard. He's convinced that you must have fallen afoul of Northumbria on your travels, though, of course, Northumbria's king denies it."  
  
Battles have been fought over less.  
  
"I should go," Gwynedd says, scrambling hurriedly to his feet.  
  
"You should, but perhaps..." Pictland's already rough voice hoarsens to a rasp and then breaks apart entirely. He clears his throat before continuing with: "Perhaps you should... neaten yourself up a little first. Your king is unlikely to believe that you've not met with any harm if you return home looking like..."  
  
Gwynedd's appearance is apparently too egregious to be easily described in words. Pictland struggles for them, nevertheless, but eventually concedes defeat and resorts to a hand gesture that encompasses Gwynedd in his entirety.  
  
The harried flip of Pictland's hand and abashedly downcast eyes make Gwynedd suddenly and crushingly aware of the berry juice which has indelibly stained the sleeves of his leine, and the dirt gathered beneath his fingernails and darkening the knees of his truis. He doesn't even want to think about how much he must stink, especially when in such close quarters as those he and Pictland had just shared as they ate.  
  
"You're right," he says. "There's a stream nearby. I'll go there and bathe."  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
The shock of cold water births a clarity of mind that Gwynedd has not experienced for weeks, and with it comes the appalling realisation that he has not been mourning his brother's absence as much as wallowing in his own misery like a hog in mud. He has not spared more than a passing thought to Elmet for many days.  
  
That truth would have been humiliating even if it had been one of his kin who had found him in such a sorry state. To have been discovered thus by a kingdom who is little better than an acquaintance is mortifying almost beyond endurance, and Gwynedd is tempted to flee for home the moment he redresses in a fresh leine and truis.  
  
But he stands in his brother's stead as a host, and he has been a poor enough one already. He has no wish to shame Elmet's memory yet further.  
  
He hurries back to the roundhouse, then, meaning only to offer his farewells and a few words of thanks for the food that had so kindly been shared with him, but that impulse withers and dies as soon as he sets eyes on Pictland again.  
  
Though the other kingdom's expression is just as impassive as it had been when Gwynedd took his leave of him – his full lips and heavy brow set as firm and obdurate as any carving – the skin below his eyes glistens wetly where the firelight touches it.  
  
Gwynedd lets slip a small, involuntary noise of surprise at the sight, one which prompts Pictland to hurriedly wipe a hand across his face and twist his head aside. The skin at the back of his neck reddens, and doubtless his cheeks are doing the same.  
  
"I'm sorry," Gwynedd stammers out, embarrassed to have caught Pictland in the midst of a moment he clearly would have wished to remain private. "I should have... I never thought that you might be mourning Elmet, too."  
  
"Why would you?" Pictland says, in a cracked and tremulous voice little more than a whisper. "I barely knew him. But he was kind to me, that year we spent together in Gododdin's king's hall, and I... I remembered him fondly.  
  
"When Alt Clut told me of his passing, I decided that I should come here and pay my last respects as best I could. It had been long enough, I thought, that I would not be intruding. I never even suspected that you would still be here until I happened to cross paths with Northumbria a couple of days back, and he told me of your king's ire.  
  
"And so suspecting..." He hangs his head lower. "I probably should have stayed away longer."  
  
"No," Gwynedd reassures him swiftly. "No, it's good that you came. I'd... forgotten myself a little, I'm afraid."  
  
"You're grieving. It can easily consume a man."  
  
"I know, but..." Gwynedd sighs, and then settles himself down onto the floor beside Pictland again. "I have lost kin in the past, and never once before has it brought me this low. I can only think that it was perhaps because it took me so much by surprise this time."  
  
"It did?" Pictland asks. He sounds slightly incredulous. "Alt Clut said that Elmet had been fading for years."  
  
That much had been clear, despite Gwynedd's mulish attempts to deny the obvious. "Yes," he grudgingly admits, "but so too has Gododdin, and yet he lives. You saw yourself how close Rheged seemed to death after Catreath was taken, and yet he recovered. I held out some hope that all would be well."  
  
That hope was as foolish as it was desperate, and Gwynedd expects Pictland to sneer at the admission of it, but he does not. Instead, without looking towards Gwynedd or acknowledging the gesture in any other way, he reaches out a hand and lays it, soft and tentative, over Gwynedd's own. His fingertips are hardened with calluses, and his palm is frigidly cold, but it has been so long since Gwynedd was touched last that it warms him from within, all the same.  
  
"He lived a long life," Pictland says gruffly. "A good life, and he had kin who loved him. There are plenty who are not lucky enough that they could say the same."  
  
Gwynedd shakes his head stubbornly. "A long life, yes, but was it a full one? It was still too soon for him to be taken. He was still not quite a man, despite all his years, and there was so much that he never got to have. He never got to share a first kiss, or fall in love, or start a family."  
  
Honestly, Gwynedd does not know if their lack pained his brother, but they have been preying on his own mind of late. The Cymry in the west are fractious, their allegiances ever shifting, and although his kingdom's future is secure for the moment, he cannot be sure that that prosperity will last.  
  
And if he falls soon, it would rob him, just as Elmet was robbed, of the chance of experiencing such things,  and he knows that would tear his heart in two.  
  
"Well, he was never likely to have the last, however long he lived," Pictland says. "And as for the others? Many of our people are taken that early, as well, and yet I think they would still envy him all of the centuries he was given. Most would gladly take our place, I imagine, if they knew the alternative."  
  
Gwynedd's people have lost too many babes in arms, too many warriors cut down in the prime of their lives, to refute the truth of Pictland's words, but that does not mean he has to like them.  
  
"He was too young," he insists adamantly.  
  
"He was your brother," Pictland says. "He was always going to be too young, whenever it happened."  
  
There's a small, telling catch in Pictland's voice that makes Gwynedd fear for _his_ brother's health, but his gentle inquiry after the same is swiftly rebuffed.  
  
His first instinct is to persist in his questions, but what scant knowledge he does possess of Pictland's character and inclinations suggests that he much prefers action to words.  
  
Consequently, he turns his hand beneath Pictland's, presses their palms together, interlacing their fingers and giving them what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze.  
  
Pictland draws in a sharp, shocked breath, and he flinches, full-bodied. He flinches, but he does not pull away, and after a long, tense moment, he finally relaxes into Gwynedd's hold.  
  
And thus they remain, in silence, watching the flickering flames of the fire Pictland set until it has burnt down to naught but embers.  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Circa 650; Erstwhile Kingdom of Gododdin, now Kingdom of Northumbria**

  
  
"What the fuck is wrong with the two of you?" Gododdin asks, gesturing between Gwynedd and Rheged with his tankard. Some of the ale it contains surges over the brim with the force of the movement, further soaking his already damp sleeves. "I present you with the finest food Northumbria's people have to offer, and you just pick at it. I tell you my finest jests, and you just sit there sulking with those damnable long faces. You're very poor guests. I'm beginning to regret inviting you."  
  
"Gododdin," Gwynedd begins, his tone placating, "we—"  
  
"This is like to be the last time we ever see you, God damn it," Rheged says, banging his fist down emphatically onto the top of the overladen table. "Do you really expect us to have appetites? Do you really want us to make merry?"  
  
"Yes," Gododdin says, his expression growing serious for the first time that day. "I expect you to drink and laugh and game with me until you're so exhausted you fall asleep where you sit, and then I expect you to rise on the morrow and do the same again. I'm not dead quite yet, and I refuse act as though I am before then.  
  
"I want to fill my belly until it aches. I want to drink ale until it sickens me. I want to fuck—"  
  
"Don't be so crass!" Rheged interjects, looking sickened.  
  
"Crass?" Gododdin laughs, sharp and humourless. "I'm _dying_ , Rheged. What's fucking crasser than that? And who the hell will remember what I do, anyway? You'll have forgotten near everything about me but my name before the century turns, regardless, no matter how badly I act in my final days.  
  
"So, yes, I want to leave this world sated and happy, lost in the arms of some lovely lass, or between the thighs of some handsome lad. I don't want to just sit here meekly whilst I wait for my end like Elmet did, and I don't want to waste what little time I have left wringing my hands, and moaning, and making myself miserable like you, Rheged."  
  
"You fucking..." Rheged's words dissolve into an unintelligible snarl of anger, and he launches himself out of his chair before stalking out of the room to the accompaniment of a stream of muttered curses.  
  
Gododdin winces as he watches him leave. "I didn't mean to..." He passes the flats of his hands over his eyes, and then pinches hard at the bridge of his nose. "Do you mind going after him, Gwyn? I fear I may be too sotted to stand."  
  
More than likely, he is too weak to do so, but that is a truth kinder left unacknowledged. Gwynedd simply agrees to the request with a nod of his head and makes no further comment.  
  
For all his complaints about his own waning strength, Rheged moves so quickly that Gwynedd does not catch up with him until he has left Gododdin's hall and set out down the scree-covered hillside beyond, as though intending to quit it entire.  
  
"Wait," Gwynedd says, laying a stilling hand on his brother's shoulder when they draw almost level. "Please wait, Rheged. I'm certain Gododdin didn't mean to offend you with what he said. He isn't thinking clearly."  
  
Rheged stops abruptly, and then wheels around on his heel to face Gwynedd. Despite the chill in the air and the frost underfoot, his complexion is ruddy enough that his skin almost seems to glow in the weak morning sunlight.  
  
"That much is obvious!" he spits. "He's completely deluded if he thinks... He looks halfway to a corpse already. No-one in their right mind would invite him into their bed now. _No-one_."  
  
"I know," Gwynedd says. "I'm certain Gododdin does, too. Like as not, he wouldn't have the strength to... perform the act of love, even if there were such a person, but thinking that he might clearly brings him pleasure. He has so little of that left to him now, why would you want to deny him even a part of it?"  
  
"Because it's undignified. It's beneath him, announcing such things in his own hall where any of his men might chance to overhear him."  
  
"They're not _his_ men anymore. I should imagine he is past caring what they may think of his character."  
  
Rheged reaches out suddenly and grabs tight hold of Gwynedd's hand, digging his clawed fingertips painfully deep into the soft spaces between Gwynedd's knuckles. "If I ever start to lose myself like he has, promise me you'll draw a knife across my throat," he says, his voice raw and ardent. "End it quickly."  
  
The mere thought of it appals Gwynedd. He has taken up arms against his kin in the past, but only ever on the orders of his king, and only ever in service of battle, where the normal rules are suspended and much is forgiven. He has never once acted in violence against one of his brothers with a cool head and steady temper, and he can scarce believe Rheged would ask it of him.  
  
In any case, it would be fruitless.  
  
"It would not end, _brawd_ ," he says. "You know that as well as I. You would bleed easily enough, but you would not die."  
  
"No doubt you're right, and I'd be denied even that small comfort." Rheged snorts mirthlessly. "Sometimes I envy our people, that their ends can come so swiftly."  
  
"There are some sicknesses that can make them linger as we do."  
  
"Not for _decades_. Do have any idea how _tiring_ that is?" Rheged takes a deep, shuddering breath in, and he seems poised to say more, but some small movement in the middle distance catches his attention. His eyes narrow. "Pictland," he says flatly. "It seems Gododdin really has invited everyone he has ever met to this living wake of his. I'll leave him to you alone, if I may, Gwyn. I am in no mood for company."  
  
Gwynedd's own mood is little different, but _someone_ must offer Pictland the hospitality of Gododdin's home, and he thinks it better he than either of his brothers. So he stands his ground whilst Rheged hurries away, and watches Pictland's diffident approach, wishing him gone with every step.  
  
When he moves into hailing distance, Pictland halts, and his gaze briefly grazes over Gwynedd's before falling to the ground. He smooths his hands down the front of his leine. Straightens the brooch that fastens his brat. Flicks his braids forwards to rest over his shoulder, and then pushes them back again.  
  
At length, he says simply, "Gwynedd."  
  
The greeting, and the jagged tone in which it is given, is so familiar that it makes Gwynedd smile despite himself. It reminds him of somewhat happier times, and the year spent feasting in Mynyddog Mwynfawr’s hall, where for many months it seemed to be almost the only thing Pictland was capable of speaking to him.  
  
"Pictland," he returns in kind. And then, as he knows Pictland well enough now to be aware that his words are simply slow to come, not completely absent, he adds, "Well met."  
  
Pictland startles slightly, clearly shocked to have been addressed thus. "Really? I was not sure I would be welcome, despite Gododdin's invitation." He grimaces apologetically. "And I have already chased Rheged away."  
  
"He is not feeling very companionable at the moment, but do not fear, as Gododdin most certainly is. He wants to gather as many around him as he can, and he will be glad to see you."  
  
Perhaps _too_ glad, Gwynedd realises when he thinks on it a little longer.  
  
"In fact, he might be glad enough that he will extend you another invitation," he warns Pictland. "To join him in his bed."  
  
" _His bed_?" Pictland repeats, his colour heightening. "Gododdin? But I... I've never thought of him that way, and I don't..."  
  
He stumbles into silence, appearing so flustered by the prospect that Gwynedd takes pity enough on him to lie, "The matter has been preoccupying him of late, and you're the first kingdom to arrive who does not claim kinship with him. He will ask on reflex, I'm certain, but he won't mean anything by it."  
  
Many times in the past – and much to the horror of Alt Clut, who considers Pictland just as terrifying as ever he did when they were children – Gododdin has pronounced Pictland exceedingly handsome, and claimed a desire to get to know him more intimately.  
  
But no matter how frequently or fervently that desire was stated, Gododdin had never before found the courage to voice it to Pictland.  
  
He does not lack for any courage now, though; even if it is simply the desperate, unthinking sort that cares nothing for consequences.  
  
"Just tell him no," Gwynedd says. "I doubt he will ask twice."  
  
Pictland nods vaguely. Swallows hard. "It's not that I don't esteem him..."  
  
He looks so distraught still that Gwynedd begins to wish that he had never raised the issue at all. It would be just his luck if Gododdin were to avoid the mentioning the matter entirely now, and this whole uncomfortable conversation will have been for naught.  
  
"Of course not." Gwynedd shakes his head. "Look, Gododdin is saying many things without giving them the thought they deserve first" – an affliction he has clearly contracted from his brother, he thinks ruefully – "but he is not giving them a great deal of thought after, either. He will bear you no ill will."  
  
He takes a couple of steps back towards Gododdin's hall. Pictland seems reluctant to follow.  
  
Gwynedd sighs, cursing his reckless tongue, and then half-turns and offers Pictland his hand. Pictland frowns, mouth pursed in confusion, but he eventually relents and takes hold of it. His grip is so loose that Gwynedd can barely feel it.  
  
"All will be well," he tells Pictland, smiling encouragingly. "Or as close to it as can be in times such as these."  
  
  


* * *

 

  
**Circa 730; Kingdom of Alt Clut**

 

  
  
"You've heard the news, then," Alt Clut says as he ushers Gwynedd inside his hall.  
  
Gwynedd nods. "Northumbria came to me in person to pass it on," he says. "So that I did not have to hear it from anyone who wasn't kin."  
  
Though, for an instant when first he arrived at his door, Gwynedd had not recognised him. He has Gododdin's height now, and has lost most of the childish plumpness that used to round his cheeks. His eyes have begun to change again, too; flecks of green darkening their grey once more.  
  
"Rheged took it far more bravely than I could ever have imagined." Alt Clut steers Gwynedd toward the hearth, and then wastes a moment fussily rearranging the two chairs set beside it, edging them a little closer, and then shuffling them back. When they are finally situated to his satisfaction, he bids Gwynedd to sit. "I think he'd dreaded his conquest for so long, that the fear had begun to lose its potency. He seemed almost relieved that it had finally happened, in the end."  
  
And Gwynedd is relieved himself to hear that. He had set out with every intention of visiting Rheged, and providing him with what meagre solace and succour his presence could bring, but he when his horse had, by an instinct born of its master's long-ingrained habit, turned onto the road that led northwards to Alt Clut's home, he did not care to correct its course.  
  
He had presumed Rheged would be raging, grief-stricken and inconsolable, and he did not feel equal to weathering that particular storm alone. Guilt did not allow him to entertain the thought for any longer than it took to first acknowledge it, but he knew he would need Alt Clut's arm at his back to steady him otherwise it would be unlikely that he could offer Rheged any comfort at all.  
  
"You will come with me, when I travel on to Rheged's hall?" he thus asks.  
  
"Aye, of course," Alt Clut says, and then he falls silent, staring blankly at the flames afore him.  
  
His face looks shadowed in a way their wavering light cannot account for; dark below his sunken eyes and around his pinched mouth. There are lines scoring his forehead that Gwynedd has never seen there before.  
  
Sudden panic clutches hold of him, wrapping its fingers so tightly around his chest and his head that he struggles to breathe and his vision dims.  
  
"And... And how are you faring, Alt?" he gasps out. "Are you well?"  
  
Alt Clut gives a dry chuckle. "As well as can be expected, with our dear brother Northumbria harrying me from the south, and your friend Pictland bearing down on me from the north."  
  
"He's not my friend," Gwynedd reassures him.  
  
"No?" Alt Clut's mouth twists wryly. "I'm sure he would be crushed to hear you say that, for he certainly seems to consider you his. Whenever we meet, he never stops prattling on about how Gwynedd said this or Gwynedd does that."  
  
Gwynedd tries and quickly fails to reconcile this report of Pictland's behaviour with his experience of it. "Truthfully?" he asks, incredulous.  
  
"Well, no," Alt Clut eventually admits. "I can barely get more than a sentence or two out of him when we do talk, but more often than not, they're about you."  
  
It's ludicrous how much those words warm Gwynedd. He finds Pictland so inscrutable that, even after all the centuries they have known one another, he had still been uncertain as to whether the other kingdom tolerated his company for its own sake, or endured it at his king's command.  
  
"Ah, you're blushing!" Alt Clut observes with unseemly delight. "Am I right to assume that my hulking neighbour has caught your eye, Gwyn?"  
  
"No," Gwynedd says bluntly. That possibility has never once crossed his mind before, and it's hardly the time nor the place to give it any consideration now. "I do like him well enough, but you must know that, if I were able, I would take up arms against him in an instant on your behalf. I would crush him without an moment's hesitation, if it would keep him longer from your door."  
  
"A pretty thought." Alt Clut sighs with exaggerated wistfulness. "I wish you were able, too, _brawd_. I fear, though, that my king would be as reluctant to accept your aid as your king would be to allow you to offer it.  
  
"Doubtless whenever Pictland or Northumbria next grow bold enough to attack, I will have to face them alone."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had been looking forward to writing this part since I first started this fic...

* * *

 

**Circa 790; Pictland**

 

 

"I'm afraid my king has issued me new orders, and thus my plans for your visit have had to change," Pictland says as he helps Gwynedd clamber over the crumbling remains of Rome's old wall; one steadying hand at his elbow, the other pressed lightly and open-palmed against the small of his back. "We will not be able to stay more than one night in my own hall."  
  
He sounds so regretful that Gwynedd murmurs sympathetic words that he hopes might ease Pictland's mind somewhat, biting back his instinctive disappointment and pique.  
  
Although he and Pictland have known each other for centuries, he had never before been asked to pass time in the other kingdom's lands, and he has been eagerly awaiting this visit for many months, keen to acquaint himself more familiarly with Pictland's home, and to perhaps be introduced to his mysterious and elusive brother, if he lives still.  
  
As Gwynedd's king had been extremely reluctant to allow him to travel northwards beyond Alt Clut's kingdom, he fears it may be many years until he is able to persuade him to grant him that boon a second time, and likely many more again before Pictland issues another such invitation. All of his happy anticipation has been for naught.  
  
"Dál Riata has requested that we journey on to his hall," Pictland says. "He has a visitor himself that he would like for us to meet. One from across the sea."  
  
"One of my sisters?" Gwynedd asks, his heart lightening a little. He has not seen them for many years.  
  
"Naw." Pictland shakes his head ponderously. "It is no-one who would claim kinship with you. They have come from the east, not the west."  
  
Since Rome left its shores, Gwynedd has not met with more than a handful of kingdoms who came from beyond their island's bounds, and most of them had been set on conquest. The idea of meeting with another thus chills him fully as much as it intrigues him.  
  
"His name is Francia, though I think you might once have known him by another," Pictland continues. "He has come to ask for Dál Riata's aid in fighting the Saxons."

 

* * *

 

  
  
**Circa 790; Kingdom of Dál Riata**

  
  
  
Despite being his nearest neighbour, Dál Riata is unlike Pictland in almost every particular: flame-haired to his coal-, rawboned where Pictland is stout, and more than a head of height taller.  
  
He does have a heavy brow like Pictland's, and just as strong a jaw, but lacking Pictland's generous mouth and thick lashes – as long and finely feathered as any lass's – to soften his features, they appear harsh and rough-hewn.  
  
At least until he smiles.  
  
He has a fine smile, expansive and congenial, and it brightens his pale blue eyes like the breaking of dawn.  
  
"Gwynedd," he says, drawing out the name as if it tastes nectar-sweet and he wants it to linger in his mouth as long as possible, "I'm so glad that you agreed to come! I suspect I would have had to drag Pictland here bodily had you refused."  
  
He embraces Gwynedd then, as close and warm as a most beloved brother, even though they have scarce shared more than a word or two before.  
  
To Pictland, conversely, he gives only a curt nod of greeting. Like as not, he had discovered long ago that such exuberance was unwelcome in that quarter.  
  
"Francia is still abed, I fear," Dál Riata says. "Though I will be sure to introduce you the very moment he awakes."  
  
Pictland snorts disparagingly. "It's almost noon."  
  
"Ah, well, we can't all rise with the sun like you do, my friend." Dál Riata raises a hand as though to clasp Pictland's shoulder, but quickly drops it again when Pictland's eyes narrow warningly. "Come, let me get you both some ale. If you drink enough of it, you'll forget to worry about the hour, I wager."

 

* * *

  
  
  
The day is growing dark by the time Francia finally emerges from his chambers, though Gwynedd is apt to think that it was his toilet that had delayed him, rather than any reluctance to part from his bedcovers, as it had clearly been extensive.  
  
His hair is intricately braided around his face –  which itself has the fresh pink glow which bespeaks a thorough scrubbing – and he is dressed so extravagantly that Gwynedd might have taken him for king instead of kingdom had his appearance not been heralded by the surging rush of magic that only another of their kind can rouse afore them.  
  
The pattern of that magic is more familiar than the face, stirring vague memories to the forefront of Gwynedd's mind, and he recalls that this kingdom – or someone very much like him – would occasionally accompany Rome on his visits.  
  
He had had golden curls then, and was pretty enough that Alt Clut had mistaken him for a lass when once he had spied him in Rheged's company.  
  
Though he has lost much of that youthful delicacy, but there remains a certain fineness to his face that suggests he will become handsome once he matures. Now, trapped in that same, liminal place between boy and man as both Gwynedd and Pictland are themselves, he merely looks slightly awkward, the promised strength contained within the clean lines of his features contrasting oddly with the fullness of his cheeks and smoothness of his chin.  
  
"Francia!" Dál Riata cries out gleefully as the other kingdom approaches their seats by the hearth. He scrambles to his feet so quickly to offer him a bow that he almost trips over them. "As you can no doubt see, my other guests have arrived! Here, please, come, and let me introduce them to you."  
  
Francia's smile is as broad as Dál Riata's own, but there's something a little brittle about it; a sharp edge that makes Gwynedd think it is perhaps not quite genuine.  
  
Still he bows prettily enough when Dál Riata says, "This is Gwynedd. He's Pictland's friend and brother to Alt Clut... You know Alt Clut, don't you? From back in Rome's day? Of course, he won't have been called Alt Clut then. He would have been..." Here Dál Riata frowns, his thick red brows drawing close to form a bristling knot. "Ah, I'm afraid I cannot recall. Anyhow, Gwynedd is one of the Cymry, from the south and west of here."  
  
"Well met," Francia says, using Rome's tongue as Dál Riata had, his voice low and silken smooth.  
  
It has been so long since Gwynedd used the language himself for any reason other than worship that he stumbles over the simple phrase when he returns it. Francia's mouth purses slightly, as though he might be holding in laughter, and he rakes his eyes perfunctorily down the full length of Gwynedd's body before turning back to his host once more.  
  
"And this is Pictland," Dál Riata says gesturing towards him in answer to the silent question Francia asks with a quirked eyebrow. "Who you already know is my neighbour."  
  
Francia and Pictland exchange their own bows and 'Well met's, and then with no warning or preamble, Pictland reaches into his pack and shoves something large and unwieldy into Francia's unsuspecting arms.  
  
Francia blinks down at the lump of wood he's suddenly found himself holding. "What is it?" he asks.  
  
"It's a..." Pictland looks down at the wood, too, and then smiles ruefully. "Ah, it's upside down. Begging your pardon, if you could just turn it over, then all should become clear."  
  
Gwynedd can't hope to stifle his gasp of delight when Francia follows Pictland's directions, and the beautiful carving on the underside is revealed.  
  
It's a lithe and graceful otter, so skilfully and carefully carved that Gwynedd fancies he could count every hair on its sharp-eyed head if he were to look closely enough. The high polish of its coat makes it shine and shimmer just as a real otter's would if it were swimming through water instead of sinuously twisting its sleek body around and between knots of wood.  
  
Francia looks no more enlightened than before he saw the creature, however, though he lifts his puzzled gaze from the wood now to Pictland.  
  
Pictland colour rises along with it. "It's a gift," he says, some of his old gruffness returning to his tone. "From my king. A gesture of good will, between my kingdom and yours."  
  
Dál Riata peers over Francia's shoulder, and his eyes widen with obvious admiration. "Did you make this, Pict?"  
  
Pictland's blush deepens. "Aye."  
  
"I thought I recognised your handiwork." Dál Riata sighs lustily. "I wish I could carve half as well as you do, but I have neither the skill nor the patience to learn it. It's a fine gift."  
  
"Yes," Francia says, a little distantly, and then, "Thank you."  
  
He does not sound especially grateful, and is quick to set the carving to one side when Dál Riata invites him to warm himself by the fire. They swiftly fall into a quiet but meaningful-looking conversation, their heads bent close together and expressions serious.  
  
It seems clear that Gwynedd and Pictland both have been forgotten. As has Dál Riata's earlier promise to refill their dry tankards, apparently.  
  
Gwynedd turns towards Pictland with the intention of making some flippant remark about their host's dereliction of duty, and then suggesting that they go in search of more ale themselves, but he is arrested by the sight of the expression that now graces Pictland's face.  
  
He looks like a man who has been starving for days finally handed a brimming trencher, his attention fixed so avidly on Francia that he does not even twitch when Gwynedd calls his name.  
  
Gwynedd frowns, and then looks towards Francia, too, wondering what miraculous change could possibly have been wrought in him that he can transfix Pictland so thoroughly now when he did no such thing mere moments before.  
  
The firelight does lend a certain vibrancy to Francia's otherwise pale complexion, and it burnishes his yellow hair so that it gleams like gold. But it does nothing to lessen the sharpness of his nose, or the harsh angles of his cheekbones.  
  
Gwynedd has seen far finer profiles, and cannot imagine why Pictland finds Francia's so fascinating.  
  
"I used to watch him over Rome's wall when we were all weans," Pictland says, though quietly enough that Gwynedd cannot be sure whether or not the words are addressed for his ears. "He would often play near there with one of your brothers. My own brother threw rocks at them whenever they got too close, but I used to wish... I wished I could join them. He was so..."  
  
He trails into silence, and Gwynedd's stomach clenches cold for no real reason he can name. "And now?" he asks.  
  
Pictland looks startled to have been asked, and seemingly he has no answer to give, anyway. He simply shrugs.

 

* * *

  
  
  
Francia remains a guest in Dál Riata's hall for three more days, and for three days, Gwynedd and Pictland see him only at the table, and even then he has nothing to say to them.  
  
From what little Gwynedd is able to observe of him at such times, it appears that he does have not much thought to spare for anything or anyone that is not pleasing on the eye or diverting to the senses. Dál Riata is not handsome, but he has plenty to say for himself, and he says it all with great enthusiasm.  
  
Gwynedd is too plain, and Pictland too quiet, to interest him, and thus they are left to their own devices.  
  
Dál Riata's lands once belonged to Pictland – or, at least, to one of the ones who came before him – and consequently he knows them well, and he leads Gwynedd on long expeditions each one of those three days, to show him everything of consequence thereabouts.  
  
Gwynedd thinks it time better spent.  
  
On the morning after Francia's departure, he and Pictland chance to walk past the chamber Francia had been using during his stay, and through its open door, can see that abandoned the carved otter on the low table beside the bed.  
  
Pictland's breathing catches; just once, but hard. When speaks next, though, his voice is remarkably level. "I'm not surprised he left it behind," he says. "I got the impression he did not care for it."  
  
"I'm so sorry, Pictland," Gwynedd says, cupping his hand around Pictland's elbow in what he hopes will be a comforting gesture. "If it's any consolation, I think it very fine."  
  
"Thank you." Pictland leans into Gwynedd's touch minutely, but very quickly eases his arm away from it afterwards. "Well, I shall have to take it with me, I suppose. Dál Riata cares not for such things, and he'd likely use it for kindling. Which would be a shame, because it was a fine piece of wood. Unless..." Pictland's gaze drops to his feet, which begin to shuffle restlessly beneath it. "If you truly think it fine, I would gladly offer it to you, instead."  
  
Gwynedd's chest feels to grow twofold, swelling with the warmth that rises there. "I would be honoured to accept," he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never intended on writing anything about the bros - and especially Scotland/France - set pre-900ish for reasons of kingdom-confusion, but after I caved and wrote [How to Build](http://archiveofourown.org/works/627345), regardless, I began to want to write something that dealt with the fact that France was meant to have met with Dal Riata, rather than the nebulous 'Alba' that I used in that fic.
> 
> After Pictland and Dal Riata (and Alt Clut) merged, however, the HtB scene was Scotland and France's later memory of how that meeting progressed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And enter the vikings....

* * *

 

**Circa 840; Kingdom of Gwynedd**

  
  
  
Gwynedd is first alerted to Pictland's approach when he crosses his eastern border with Mercia and disturbs the ambient magic there. The aftershock of his passing resounds like a bell across Gwynedd's lands, making his ears ring in sympathy, and the short hairs at the back of his neck stand on end like the bristling ruff of an enraged dog.  
  
His fae swarm around him, too, screeching wordless terror and warning, but he tells them, "Peace," and, "All is well."  
  
Pictland travels alone, and his tread is unusually careful, almost contrite. This is no attempt at invasion, he leads no war party. The motivations for his visit must be entirely benign.  
  
But they are also entirely opaque. Gwynedd knows of no kingly decree that would have given Pictland cause to journey this far south, though as his route will have brought him through lands inimical to him, he presumes that whatever business _has_ guided his feet is of a most pressing nature.  
  
He puzzles over what it might be for a day and the best part of a night, but when Pictland finally appears at his door with the dawning of the next day, all such speculations fly from his mind in an instant.  
  
Pictland's eyes are both blackened, and his chin is cleft with a deep cut that has just barely begun to heal over. There are bandages peeking out from beneath the sleeves of his leine, wound tight around his wrists.  
  
"What happened?" Gwynedd asks, his voice breaking shrill in his dismay as it has not done for many years. "Who did this to you?"  
  
Pictland parts his lips as if to reply, but when his gaze falls on Gwynedd's servants, milling uncertainly in the hall behind him, he seemingly thinks better of doing so. He shakes his head, and says, "Not here."  
  
"Of course." Gwynedd's dismisses the servants with a word, sending them scattering. "We can talk in my chambers if you like. We won't be disturbed there."  
  
He offers Pictland his arm only as a politeness, fully expecting it to be rebuffed, but for a wonder, the other kingdom crooks his own arm around it without hesitation.  
  
The reason for this uncharacteristically easy acceptance of support becomes abundantly clear when they set off walking together.  
  
Pictland's steps are small, stilted, and shaky, and he leans so much of his greater weight against Gwynedd's side that Gwynedd struggles to stay upright himself.  
  
"You didn't walk all the way from your own lands, did you?" he asks, horrified. "It must have taken you an age."  
  
"Naw." Pictland chuckles wryly. "I rode most of the way. I just dismounted at your border. As a courtesy."  
  
"One I must thank you for, elsewise you might have been met at swordpoint, seeing as though you gave no other word of your approach."  
  
"And I apologise for that, but I did not realise that I intended this visit myself until I was over halfway here."  
  
Gwynedd thinks there must be more to the story, as Pictland has never struck him as one to make such rash decisions, or to act so thoughtlessly, but he keeps his questions to himself as they have many stairs to climb, and the effort of mounting them soon robs Pictland of the breath he would need to answer.  
  
By the time they reach Gwynedd's chamber, he is as winded as a horse who has galloped for many leagues: puffing and blowing, his hair soaked through with sweat.  
  
"Please, take a seat," Gwynedd says, gesturing towards one of the chairs set beside the fire which had already been built up in anticipation of Pictland's arrival. "I shall bring you something to sup."  
  
Pictland gasps out something approximating thanks, and Gwynedd retreats to his kitchens, where he lingers over drawing ale and picking out some choice cuts of meat in the hopes that he will give Pictland time enough to recover from his travails.  
  
When he returns to his side, Pictland's breathing has slowed, but his face is still florid and his lips are tinged a worrying shade of blue. Still, his hand is steady as he takes tankard and plate from Gwynedd, and his gratitude this time is clear-spoken.  
  
He drinks deep of the ale, but picks only sparingly at the meat, setting the plate aside after eating a few morsels. "It is good," he is quick to reassure Gwynedd, as if his fastidiousness is something that could possibly give offence, "but my appetite is lacking, I fear."  
  
Gwynedd would not have expected otherwise, given his injuries. "It's no matter."  
  
Pictland inclines his head in acceptance, and then grows so still that it may as well be a statue seated in the chair beside Gwynedd's. As the silence between them stretches, Gwynedd fancies that the air itself thickens, bearing down heavy on his head and chest.  
  
In times such as these, it has ever been his habit and his comfort to lessen the pressure by speaking of aught that passes through his mind, profundities and inanities both, but he had long ago learnt that his words are just as likely to scare Pictland's own away than encourage him to voice them.  
  
And because he very much wants to hear what Pictland has to say, he endures the pressure and the hot, disquieting itch of his skin, and lets the words rattle instead solely inside his own head, where he attempts to distract himself by trying to impose some sort of order and compose them into poetry, though the results are apt to be nonsense ditties rather than anything of note.  
  
He has constructed two very tenuously humorous verses about hedgehogs by the time Pictland finally speaks, but the sound of his voice sends them scattering to the wind, which is likely for the best.  
  
"I hear that the Northmen have been harrying your brother Northumbria of late," he says.  
  
"Yes," Gwynedd replies eagerly, experiencing a guilty rush of relief quite at odds with the subject matter at hand. "They have been nipping at his flanks for a long while, like a pack of wolves trying to bring down a stag."  
  
"And your sister, too?"  
  
"They have recently set up camp in Dubh Linn, which does not bode well."  
  
Pictland nods vaguely, and begins to drum his fingers against the arm of his chair, from index through to ring, then ring back to index again, in an ever-increasing tempo that makes Gwynedd's heart speed up to match it.  
  
"Are you—"  
  
"They engaged my king's army, as well. They all fought so bravely, but..." Pictland breathes deep, as though steeling himself. "My king is dead, and his brother and heir along with him."  
  
Bile rises at the back of Gwynedd's throat, and his head spins vertiginously. "Did they...?"  
  
"I am unconquered," Pictland says quickly, "but I lost so many men; almost without number. I am not certain... I don't know how much will be left of me now."  
  
"Oh, Pictland, I..." No fitting words of consolation come readily to Gwynedd, and clasping Pictland's hand as he has in the past seems unequal to the magnitude of the situation.  
  
Bereft of other ideas, and moving solely on instincts born of his concern, he rises from his seat and throws his arms around Pictland's shoulders, drawing him up and into an embrace.  
  
It's only when Pictland's grows tense in his hold, his muscles bunching tight, and his breathing begins to shorten again, that he remembers that he should be mindful of his injuries.  
  
"I'm sorry, Pict," he says, easing the other kingdom away from him with a hand pressed light against his chest. "If I caused you any pain, and for everything else, as well."  
  
"You didn't hurt me." Pictland's colour has heightened again, too. "But thank you for the rest."  
  
"What happened to your king...? Is that why you came? Do you need my aid?"  
  
Gwynedd does not think his own king could be persuaded to provide any, but perhaps Alt Clut's or Northumbria's might be, and he resolves to talk to his brothers as soon as he is able, and plead Pictland's case on his behalf.  
  
"Naw," Pictland says, "it wasn't what I needed." His eyes flit to the fire, and then the plate he set aside, and finally to Gwynedd. His gaze is more forthright than Gwynedd has ever seen it before, and a small, bashful smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "I'm not sure still, but I think... I think I may already have that."  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
**Circa 867; Kingdom of Northumbria, now subject to the Danelaw**

  
  
  
Northumbria seems much diminished after the capture of York. He is not fading or decaying like one in his dying time, but tired in a much more human way: his will worn down and his strength sapped by the many years of raids upon his lands.  
  
His eyes are bagged, his skin ashen, and he often loses the thread of his thoughts, his words trailing away into nothing mid-sentence as his eyes grow glassy and vacant.  
  
He fixes Gwynedd and Strathclyde with that blank stare now, as though unaware of why they are sitting there at his table, and, perhaps, even who they are.  
  
Strathclyde shifts his weight uneasily in his seat. Clears his throat. "At least they let you keep your king," he says with a contrived enthusiasm that sounds somewhat brash and unfeeling to Gwynedd's ears, though he knows his brother meant it in naught but kindness.  
  
Northumbria does not appear offended by his tone, however, for he gives no reprimand, and his tone is neutral when he says, "I'm afeared that he is my king in name only, Alt. Nothing more than a puppet of the Northmen."  
  
"I'm no longer Alt Clut, North," Strathclyde corrects him gently, sharing a concerned look with Gwynedd. If Northumbria's memory is slipping, perhaps his condition _is_ more serious than they had assumed. "My name is Strathclyde now, remember?"  
  
"I... Yes, of course. Strathclyde." Northumbria grimaces, grinding his knuckles almost viciously against his temples. "You must forgive me, brother. My head is pounding so much I can barely think straight."  
  
"And no wonder, with all these heavy feet pounding in their turn across your lands," Strathclyde says. "They're relentless. aren't they? They've even been trying their luck of Gwynedd of late."  
  
"Aye, but you have been able to keep them at bay every time, right, Gwyn?"  
  
"So far," says Gwynedd modestly, for he has no wish to tempt his fate.  
  
"And so it will continue, I shouldn't wonder," Strathclyde says, clapping him companionably on the shoulder. "With Powys already under your wing, and Seisyllwg like to come to you too, soon enough, you are growing ever stronger, _brawd_.  
  
"For my part, I am expecting the Northmen to be knocking at my door any day now, closely followed, no doubt, by Pictland, come to pick my bones clean, as he has been trying to do this past century and more. Now his king sits on the throne of Dál Riata as well as his own, I shouldn't be surprised if he succeeded.  
  
"At this rate, there'll soon be no-one left on this island but your kingdom to the west, Pictland in the north, and Angles, Saxons and Northmen squabbling over who shall take control of the south."  
  
Strathclyde has always held on to his optimism in the past, through sieges and sorties and the slow disintegration of the kingdoms that once surrounded his own, and such cynicism is so unlike him that it chills Gwynedd's blood.  
  
"Hush," he says, forcing a bright, teasing cheerfulness into his voice that he doesn't really feel. "You're being ridiculous. I'm sure it will never come to that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a side note, the history of Pictland is so confusing when it comes to the throne of Dal Riata. (I may just have thrown up my hands and picked the recounting that works best with the story...)
> 
> I had hoped to finish this fic last week, but I didn't have quite enough spare time, and this chapter marks the end of what I managed to get (mostly) written then. Future updates (to this and other fics) will probably be a little slower as a consequence.


	7. Chapter 7

**Circa 890; Kingdom of Gwynedd**  
  
  
  
Given the reasons for his last unannounced visit, from the first moment Gwynedd feels Pictland's step upon his land – so light and so very careful that it barely causes more than a ripple of magic in its wake, like a small pebble cast into a fast-flowing stream – he anticipates their eventual meeting with a great deal of trepidation.  
  
He sets his servants to setting fires in every hearth, orders the kitchens to cook up the wholesome broths and gruels that he knows his people make for the nourishment of their own wounded, and then cloisters himself in his chambers with a tome of healing spells, which he pores over long into the night.  
  
Pictland would doubtless refuse to allow him to perform even the weakest amongst them upon him, deeming it a waste of his magic, but Gwynedd feels that he'd be remiss as a host if he were not able to at least make the offer, and make it in good faith.  
  
Despite his worries and confounding his careful preparations, the Pictland that arrives at his hall looks hale and hearty, unwounded and unbowed. Moreover, his countenance and conduct are open in a way Gwynedd has never witnessed before in all the many centuries he has known the other kingdom: he is quick to smile when Gwynedd greets him, even quicker to offer the comfort of an embrace when Gwynedd admits to the fears that had beset him.  
  
It seems impolite to enquire about the change, and counter to Gwynedd's interests besides, as he far from dislikes it and fears that drawing any attention to it might make Pictland self-conscious enough to seek solace in his usual reserve.  
  
Instead he merely asks, with studied dispassion, "So, what duty brings you to my door, _fy ffrind_?"  
  
"No duty," Pictland says. "I just wanted to see you."  
  
"Oh," Gwynedd says, and then no more, as he cannot think of any words that seem fitting for such an answer.  
  
Their kind do not seek out each other's company simply for the pleasure of it, or, at least, they rarely admit as much. Gwynedd still couches his frequent requests to visit Strathclyde in terms of improving relations between their kingdoms or currying favour with Strathclyde's king, even though his own kings having long allowed him latitude in that quarter in deference to the strength of their bond of kinship.  
  
Pictland clearly misreads his puzzled frown as an indication of some far more sinister emotion, as he soon stammers out, "My apologies. I should not have descended upon you unannounced yet again. It was ill-considered, ill-mannered and, I take it, ill-timed, too."  
  
"No," Gwynedd says quickly, before the remnants of Pictland's disarmingly broad grin have chance to fade away entirely. "No, not at all. Except..." He attempts a smile of his own. "I hope you have a liking for broth and gruel, as I fear that will be all there is to eat around here for at least the next few days."

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
Pictland has stomach enough for broth and gruel that the vast pots of them bubbling away in Gwynedd's kitchens are both scraped clean by the morning of the second day of his visit.  
  
Although his appetite _is_ uncharacteristically voracious, he seems to be hungry for more than just food.  
   
He says more in any given hour than he did in the entire year they spent together in Gododdin's king's hall. He reminisces about past battles, tells tales of his brother – long dead, Gwynedd is saddened to hear, though Pictland betrays no lingering grief at his passing – and shares what few memories he has of Gwynedd's kin in their turn.  
  
And after each recounting, he urges Gwynedd to match it with one of his own, seemingly as eager to listen as he is to talk.  
  
He is eager, too, to see more of Gwynedd's lands – whose borders have changed much since his last visit – and though they walk abroad for many leagues every morning, he still presses Gwynedd to futilely pit their archery skills one against the other come afternoon, and then play at knucklebones or dice long into the evening.  
  
Buoyed by his enthusiasm, Gwynedd even allows himself to be cajoled into their long deferred sparring match.  
  
He embarrasses himself just as thoroughly as he had always suspected he would, losing in quick succession his grip on his sword and then his balance. His life would have been next, no doubt, had he and his opponent been mortal men fighting in earnest, because Pictland is just as quick to knock him onto his back from his winded crouch, and then press the point of his blade against the hollow of Gwynedd's unprotected throat.  
  
“You won’t always have the advantage of higher ground, you know," Pictland says, his voice tonelessly flat. The sun is high and bright behind his head, and though Gwynedd squints his eyes as he looks up at him, and then shadows them with a hand, he can still read nothing of his expression. "You’re going to be cut to ribbons on the battlefield one of these days. You should practice more.”  
  
"I'll try and bear that in mind," Gwynedd grumbles, nettled by the insinuation that he has been neglecting his own duties in that area, rather than simply lacking a certain aptitude for them that _others_ seem to possess both naturally and in abundance.  
  
So nettled is he, in fact, that when Pictland extends a hand to help him to his feet, he steadfastly ignores it until Pictland heaves a sigh that sounds so exasperated that it makes Gwynedd feel like a peevish child.  
  
Despite his obvious irritation about the delay, Pictland seems shocked when Gwynedd does take hold of his hand, jerking his arm back so violently that Gwynedd almost loses his footing again in the same instant he regains it.  
  
"Sorry," Pictland says. He curls his fingers protectively in towards his palm, wincing as though they pain him. "I thought I..."  
  
Gwynedd waits patiently for a moment or two, but his silence does not seem apt to coax any more words from Pictland as it usually would. The other kingdom's gaze has become distant in a way that Gwynedd has not seen for many years, but is long-familiar, nonetheless. He looks as though he has retreated to some place deep within himself and then drawn shutters up over his eyes to prevent anyone else peeking inside after him.  
  
"You thought...?" Gwynedd prompts him, in the slim hope that the sound of his voice might bring Pictland back to himself although it never has before.  
  
Miraculously, though, it appears to work, and a small smile soon softens the tight-drawn line of Pictland's mouth, closely followed by, "I was thinking that it's high time we had some ale. I've developed a powerful thirst."  
  
Gwynedd very much doubts that that was truly what had been occupying his mind, but he's too relieved to hear Pictland say anything at all to risk pressing his luck by questioning him further.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
Pictland has never before been one to over-indulge, but his appetite for ale has apparently increased in proportion to his appetite for food.  
  
He downs the first tankard Gwynedd gives him in one swallow, then drains the second, third and fourth whilst Gwynedd is still supping at his first. By the time night falls, he is deep in his cups, florid of face and slurring his words so badly that Gwynedd can scarce understand them.  
  
When he begins to sway in his seat, Gwynedd thinks that it may be prudent – and, perhaps, overdue – to suggest that he remove himself from the servants' view. If Pictland were in his right mind, he would be mortified to think that he might become the subject of the their gossip, especially as that gossip has every likelihood of thereafter making its way to the ears of Gwynedd's king.  
  
"I believe it may be time for you to retire to your bedchamber," he says to Pictland in an undertone.  
  
Pictland glances up at him through his lashes, his eyes heavy-lidded. "Will you see me there?"  
  
It's the first coherent sentence he has spoken for the past hour or more.  
  
"I will," Gwynedd says, and Pictland gives him a wide, sloppy grin that sits so oddly on his face that Gwynedd hardly recognises him.  
  
He rues his promise as soon as they set out walking together. Pictland is just as unsteady on his feet as he had been when he was injured, but as he has gained almost half a head of height on Gwynedd during the intervening years whilst not losing one inch of his breadth, it is even more of a trial for Gwynedd to keep him from toppling arse over tit.  
  
When a good ten minutes or so of sweating and swearing have brought them no closer to Pictland's bedchamber than the foot of the stairs, Gwynedd decides both to risk doing himself a grievous injury, and to hang what might remain of Pictland's pride. He slings an arm around Pictland's back and up under his armpits, and then half-drags, half-carries him on upwards.  
  
Pictland mumbles and fumbles his way through fresh apologies all the while, his chagrin over shaming himself, and, most especially, Gwynedd most prominent amongst them.  
  
Growing tired of hearing such after the fourth repetition, Gwynedd tells him, "Hush. This hall has seen far worse. Strathclyde has disgraced himself here many times. On more than one occasion, he has done so all over my shoes. If you can make it to your bed without following suit, I shall consider your behaviour impeccable in comparison."  
  
Pictland still looks completely woebegone, but he does at least keep a tight lip on his words – and, thankfully, all else – until Gwynedd has deposited him safely on his bed. He sinks down amongst the furs, his arms and legs spread wide, and then voices first a soft groan of relief and quickly thereafter a question.  
  
"Are you not going to ask me why I came here?"  
  
"You already told me that when you arrived," Gwynedd says. This, too, reminds him of Strathclyde, who regularly has his memory stolen away by ale. "You wanted to see me. And that's reason enough for me, Pict, because I am always glad to pass time with you."  
  
Pictland sighs heavily. "Through all the many years I've... I've been able to call you my friend, I've often wished that I could visit you simply for my own enjoyment, but I never did because my king would not abide it. Have you not thought to wonder what has changed?"  
  
"Well, I—"  
  
"I'm dying, Gwyn."  
  
Despite the low, heartfelt tone in which it's delivered, this admission seems so very ridiculous that it prompts only laughter from Gwynedd. "All the ale you've thrown down your neck this night might make it feel that way," he says, "but I assure you you're not actually going to die from it."  
  
"It's not the ale," Pictland says. "My time has come."  
  
Which is just new foolishness piled atop what was already absurdity. "We've walked together every day this past sennight, _sparred together_ , and you've never once needed to so much as pause to catch your breath throughout," Gwynedd scoffs. "This very moment aside, you're the picture of good health."  
  
"Nevertheless, it's the truth."  
  
"How can you be dying when your king still sits on his throne? When the people he rules over are still yours?"  
  
"Aye, but he rules over Dál Riata and his people, too. And where there is one kingdom, there cannot be two... two of our kind, Gwyn. You know that as well as I."  
  
"I do," Gwynedd concedes, but not without some reluctance, as he has no desire to encourage such thoughts in Pictland's mind, or allow them any credence in his own. "But what makes you think it will be you who dies, and not Dál Riata? He has no king, after all."  
  
"Maybe not, but he still has his tongue. My... Our people are forgetting the language we long shared, and the old ways along with it. I fear they are more his now than mine."  
  
Gwynedd hums to acknowledge that he has heard Pictland's words, but offers neither agreement nor disagreement, besides.  
  
Whilst it may well be true that there will soon be but one kingdom in the north, it seems far too early to say who between Pictland and Dál Riata will change and grow stronger, and who will fade away.  
  
For many years, Gwynedd had thought – along with all the rest of his kin – that the greater part of any new kingdom would belong to the victors, but there is little of Bernicia or Deira in Northumbria, even though they shared his Angle blood.  
  
Of all those who went into his brother's making, he looks and acts most like Rheged, for all that there was so little left of him in the end. Nothing, really, beyond his stubborn will, and, Gwynedd has come to think, maybe that accounts for how much of him came to survive in his successor.  
  
And where Rheged's will was iron, Pictland's is granite; of a different nature but, Gwynedd hopes, just as strong.  
  
"You may not believe me, but I know in my heart I am right," Pictland persists. "And knowing has led me to thinking about what you said to me when your brother... Elmet died.  
  
"Although my regrets are not exactly the same as those you ascribed to him, I've found those I _do_ have are becoming more weighty of late. Some, I could likely do little about, whether my end came on the morrow or ten centuries from now, but others... I have always wanted to claim some time as my own, and visit you as a friend and not the emissary of my king. And..."  
  
Pictland wets his lips and takes a deep breath, but if there _were_ aught more he wanted to say on the matter, he appears unwilling to give it voice. Unwilling, and made unhappy by it, seemingly, judging by the tight pinch of his mouth and creasing of his brow.  
  
To his chagrin, Gwynedd's curiosity proves stronger than his concern. "And?" he asks.  
  
"And I'm too tired for this conversation," Pictland says brusquely. He wraps his arms around his chest and then shifts onto his side, turning his back on Gwynedd. "We can speak on it more in the morning."

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
One of Gwynedd's servants rouses him at daybreak with the news that his guest is packed and ready to depart in all haste. Even though Gwynedd rises in an instant, pausing only for long enough to throw on a pair of truis and a leine before rushing - barefoot, unwashed, and with his hair snarled up in a tangle - down to his entrance hall, he still fears that Pictland's propensity towards swift action will have robbed him of the chance to say anything at all to his friend, his promise of the previous night notwithstanding.  
  
He finds Pictland still by the door, but considering the pack at resting on the floor by his feet, he is clearly poised to walk away at any moment. And despite this clear breach of good manners, he greets Gwynedd's panting arrival and wild appearance with nothing more than a slightly raised eyebrow. He does not look in the least bit ashamed of himself.  
  
"You were just going to go without telling me farewell?" Gwynedd asks him incredulously.  
  
"Naw, I wanted to say my goodbyes, which is why I asked your servant to wake you. But I also wanted to make sure that I didn't have chance to say anything else, either, which is why I won't linger after."  
  
Gwynedd's annoyance is swept away by a rush of confusion. "What?"  
  
"Last night, I fully intended to tell you many things that no longer seem wise with the benefit of a clearer head. But I already know that if I allow myself stay any longer, it will become all the harder again to keep quiet, as I know I should. And..." Pictland gives his head a rough shake, clearly frustrated. "Some of my regrets... Well, it's probably kinder on the both of us if I take them to the grave along with me."  
  
All of which helps to clear Gwynedd's perplexity not one iota. "You're not speaking any sense," he says.  
  
"I'm speaking as best I can, but you know that words have never served me well." Pictland steps forward and clasps Gwynedd's shoulders. His grip is sure, but his fingers are trembling ever so slightly, and that tremor is evident too in his voice when he says, "Farewell, Gwyn. I doubt we will meet again."  
  
In the brief moment after Pictland releases Gwynedd but before he stoops to pick up his pack, he leans in and presses a kiss to Gwynedd's lips. It's fleeting, but as firm as his hold had been, and it steals all the breath from Gwynedd's chest just as thoroughly as if it had been far deeper and more ardent.  
  
Steals it so thoroughly that he cannot mount even a single word of protest when Pictland turns away from him once more, and takes his leave without so much as a backwards glance.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to get at least one fic finished before Christmas and my free time inevitably dwindles down from 'limited' to 'nonexistent' again for a while. I never intended that fic to be Vanished, but I'm pleased to have finally completed it, all the same!

* * *

 

 **934; Kingdom of Alba**  
  
  
  
"Does he often look like that?" Strathclyde asks.  
  
Gwynedd follows the direction of Strathclyde's gaze and sees only Powys nearby, attempting to tighten the girth on his saddle. Every time he takes hold of the straps, his horse sidesteps around him and then throws its head up so high that he loses his grip on its reins and the straps both. Powys' mouth is clamped shut, his cheeks swollen with so much trapped air that they look as round and red as winter apples, and a heavy sweat has broken out on his brow.  
  
"Powys? You know he does. And you know as well as I that the outcome of that particular battle of wits is far from certain."  
  
"Personally, I would place my money on the horse," Strathclyde says, smirking. "But I was not talking of our dear brother." He jerks his chin towards a point beyond Powys' rigidly-set shoulders, on the outer edge of their camp. "I was talking of Wessex."  
  
The southern kingdom is too far distant for Gwynedd to be able to see aught of his expression, but he can intuit much from his carriage. The boy is strutting back and forth like a cockerel, his narrow chest puffed up and his steps high, stiff-legged, and proud.  
  
"A little smug?" he says. "Well, yes. That's... not unusual for him, of late."  
  
"He's more than a _little_ smug. He looks like someone who is not only enjoying the smell of his own farts, but thinks their fragrance a gracious favour he is bestowing upon the world." Strathclyde tips his nose up in demonstration, his nostrils flared wide. "I don't know how you can bear to take orders from the little weasel."  
  
"I grit my teeth and remember my first loyalty is to my king," Gwynedd says stiffly. "If he accepts Æthelstan's overlordship, then so must I. You and your king once did so, too, Strathclyde."  
  
"And so must we again, now his lordship has marched up here to bring us to heel." Strathclyde's lips purse as though he has a bad taste in his mouth, one he spits out on to the ground before saying, "No doubt I will be down in Buckingham bending the knee to Wessex, Mercia and the rest before this year is out. My only comfort, I suppose, is that Alba will be right there with me." He glances sidelong at Gwynedd. "He has told me often that he wishes to speak with you.  
  
"But you've become very elusive these past few years, apparently. He has seen your king at the southerners' assemblies, but you were never at his side. I thought that strange, as you have never been one to shirk your duties."  
  
Gwynedd turns away from his brother, not wanting to meet his eyes, even obliquely. Strathclyde has always been able to read him far too easily. "I have no wish to see him."  
  
"Because he's not Pictland?"  
  
There seems little point in denying it, as, clearly, the back of Gwynedd's head must be much more eloquent than he ever could have guessed.  
  
"Yes," he says. "Pictland was my friend, Strathclyde, and now this usurper stands in his place. This... This _murderer_ , and yet he wants me to clasp his hand, and smile, and tell him well met? I will not do it."  
  
Strathclyde snorts loudly. "You're being unreasonable," he says. "An act of nature is not murder. Pictland did not die because Alba willed it, it is just the way of things. As you well know."  
  
"I seem to recall you were not so sanguine when Elmet passed. You long postponed meeting with Northumbria for fear that your temper would not hold."  
  
"Aye, I admit it did take me a year or two to I realise how irrational I was being. Not nigh on _thirty_. You will have to grasp that nettle sooner or later. You cannot avoid him forever."  
  
"I can try," Gwynedd says, wishing he could swallow back the words even as he speaks them because they can do naught but strengthen Strathclyde's position.  
   
"Oh, _brawd_ ," Strathclyde says, sounding both saddened and exasperated. "You will be lucky if you manage to avoid him for the rest of this day."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"How...? You truly must not be thinking straight, because I know you're cleverer than this." Strathclyde hooks one arm around Gwynedd's neck, and pulls him close against his side. "You _invaded_ him, Gwyn. You trod his lands with ill intent. Though you may not have crossed swords in the fighting, he will have felt you on the field. There will be no hiding from him this time."  
  
Gwynedd's heart feels to lurch up into his throat, stoppering it so tightly that he cannot force enough breath past the obstruction to make a reply.  
  
Strathclyde winces at the inchoate, strangled noise that slips from Gwynedd's lips in lieu of coherence, and then gives his shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze. "My advice would be to return to your tent and let him come to you," he says. "I think you will like him more than you expect."

 

* * *

  
  
  
Gwynedd remains in his tent until he senses Strathcylde's steps retreating towards his own, and then flees both it and the camp entire, hurrying across the battle-churned fields towards a small wooded grove he had taken note of when Wessex's army passed it in their march, with just such an eventuality as this in mind.  
  
Despite what Strathclyde may believe – and Gwynedd has taken pains not to disabuse him of the idea – he has become inured enough to Pictland's loss in the past three decades that the pain of it has dulled to a manageable ache.  
  
What he has struggled to reconcile himself to, however, is the knowledge that there now lives a new kingdom with whom he claims neither kinship nor friendship who will nevertheless share somewhat of Pictland's memories.  
  
Gwynedd has not shared what passed between Pictland and him during their last meeting with anyone, not even Strathclyde, as he felt both intuitively and strongly that it was something that belonged only to the two of them.  
  
But now there is some stranger who will know all of it. More than Gwynedd, no less, as he must be aware of all Pictland thought but did not voice; the regrets he kept to himself.  
  
Gwynedd is fairly certain by now that he knows what at least one of them had been, but he has wondered, and worried, and second guessed himself so many times that he still cannot be completely sure.  
  
Only one person could give him confirmation, and they no longer have any voice to speak that Gwynedd would wish to hear.  


 

* * *

  
  
  
After such a long walk over open ground under the brilliance of a cloudless summer sky, it takes Gwynedd's eyes a moment to adjust to the relative darkness to be found beneath the trees' canopy, and a moment longer still to pick out a darker silhouette from amongst the piebald shadows.  
  
An achingly familiar silhouette, for all that the magic it disturbs with its pacing forms patterns that Gwynedd has never seen before, and he curses himself for a fool for never considering that this particular place might have seemed just as an inviting retreat from the hustle and bustle of the army camp to others beyond himself.  
  
Had he allowed himself to at least look on Alba before now, he might have guessed from the breadth of those shoulders and the heaviness of that tread that more of Pictland than he had ever hoped might live on in his successor. But he had not dared to look, and so had never thought to wonder whether Alba might share Pictland's need to escape the press of large crowds, or his desire to find solitude amongst nature.  
  
It is too late for such regrets now, though, especially as Alba's hearing prove just as sharp as Pictland's ever was. When one of Gwynedd's fumbling backwards steps lands on a twig that snaps beneath his weight, Alba stops dead in his tracks, head cocked, like a stag which has just caught scent of a hunter.  
  
As he turns towards the source of the noise and the broken light trickling through the leaves overhead falls over his face, Gwynedd's breath is stolen from him all over again.  
  
Because those are Pictland's eyes staring unblinkingly back at him, set above Pictland's nose, mouth and jaw, and below that same heavy brow. Each feature is identical in every particular. Just as familiar as his frame. Just as handsome.  
  
It takes Gwynedd a long moment of searching to find any points of difference between this new kingdom and the one he once knew. There is barely discernable hint of copper in to his dark hair, and Alba is perhaps an inch or two taller than Pictland had been, but those small alterations aside, they could well be twins.  
  
The diffident step he takes towards Gwynedd is Pictland's too, as is his subsequent pause, and the way he then nervously adjusts the line of the already-straight brooch that fastens his brat.  
  
"Gwynedd," he says eventually, his eyes still downcast. His voice is clear, and far deeper than Pictland's had been, for all that Alba appears his younger, perhaps of an age with Gwynedd now.  
  
"Alba," Gwynedd returns, and then, because it seems that he is trapped beyond the point of escaping such things, for good or for ill, he adds, "You wished to talk to me?"  
  
Alba nods, but thereafter remain silent. His hands fall from his brooch to rest at his sides, and then his fingers begin to tap out an arrhythmic beat against the tops of his thighs.  
  
A wave of recognition washes over Gwynedd, so powerful and so warming that his chest and his skin and his eyes seem to burn with it.  
  
"But you have no idea what to say?" he suggests, his voice cracking on the final word.  
  
The smile Alba gives him is in every dazzling inch of it Dál Riata's.  
  
"Well, I've been told many times that I talk enough for two men," Gwynedd says, approaching him with an eagerness that he'd never once suspected he might feel, despite all the many times he has imagined this first meeting. "I'm sure we'll be able to muddle along somehow."  


 

* * *

 

  
  
**Circa 1000, Kingdom of Strathclyde**  
  


Though Strathclyde does not ignore the fact that he is dying, as Elmet did, he seems keen that Gwynedd do so in his stead.  
  
They never speak of it, save that Strathclyde will occasionally phrase some words of advice as 'After I am gone, you should do that,' or 'Once I've passed, you'll have to do this'.  
  
They do not speak of his slowing speech, his thinning hair, or the wrinkles that have gathered at the corners of his dull eyes. Strathclyde does not share the appetites Gododdin once possessed, or Rheged's unruly temper, and he seems to wish only that they carry on as before, as they ever have, for however many days he has left to him.  
  
When they meet, they talk only of the present, even though Gwynedd longs to reminisce with him about the kin they have lost. Of the dwindling number of their kind left upon their isle, he and Strathclyde have changed the least, and thus remember them the most clearly, and when he is gone...  
  
Englaland is a disconcerting mix of brother and outsider still; scraps and snippets of Roman,  Angle, Saxon, and those who were once Gwynedd's kin all jumbled up inside the body of a boy Gwynedd scarcely even recognises. His memories are just as fragmentary, and often run counter to Gwynedd's own.  
  
Northumbria is likely to fall to either Englaland or Alba soon enough, and his mind has already begun slipping.  
  
And Alba is just as taciturn as Pictland ever was at his most reserved. Gwynedd counts himself lucky if he manages to squeeze more than a sentence or two out of him whenever they converse.  
  
When Strathclyde is gone, there will be no-one left to share those memories with.  
  
"Oh, for..." Strathclyde thrusts a scrap of linen into Gwynedd's hand. "Dry your eyes, Gwyn. Crying doesn't suit you. It makes your face look like an overripe strawberry."  
  
Gwynedd hadn't even noticed that his tears had started to fall.  
  
"Sorry, _brawd_ ," he says, scrubbing at his face with the fabric. "I forgot myself for a moment there."  
  
"I'll say so. Nose dripping all over my good table? Disgraceful behaviour." Strathclyde wags a finger at him chidingly, and then leans back in his chair, his hands laced behind his head. "Come, let us speak of more cheerful things, like.... Alba, perhaps? How are the two of you getting along lately?"  
  
Strathclyde's grin is wickedly pointed, and blood rushes to Gwynedd's cheeks.  
  
"Well enough," he says. "Or, at least, I think so. It's hard to tell, given he speaks so little."  
  
Strathclyde's grin grows even broader, showing all the jagged points of his remaining teeth. "Ah, but he seeks you out at every available opportunity, does he not? Even if it is just so that he can sit there staring at you, looking glum."  
  
"He doesn't stare at me," Gwynedd says, his face heating further. It feels as though it might start to burn.  
  
"He stares just as much as Pictland ever did, though I don't know why I expected you to notice, as you were blind to _that_ for centuries."  
  
"Strathclyde—"  
  
"Don't make the same mistake again, Gwyn," Strathclyde says, his tone suddenly becoming sober. "Time is running short. After I am gone, I doubt his feelings will be the same."  


 

* * *

  
  
  
  
**Circa 1050, Kingdom of Alba**

  
  
The very instant after the fae bring him the news he had long been dreading, Gwynedd sets out to travel to Alba's lands.  
  
Though they both might kill just as surely, a blade taken direct through the heart is gentler in its way than one drawn through the guts, and Gwynedd would rather not prolong his own suffering.  
  
And the pain he feels when Alba greets him at the door to his hall is indeed as sharp as any sword thrust. He has gained a few more inches of height, and lost most of his bulk along with them, though his shoulders remain as broad as they ever were.  
   
His face is unchanged, excepting that his eyes are now green.  
  
Gwynedd tries to bite back his sob, but is just a fraction too slow. Alba looks at him aghast, his eyes growing wide and his complexion paling, as if he has never seen anything even half so horrifying happen upon his doorstep before.  
  
"I'm sorry," they both say in such perfect unison that it shocks laughter from Gwynedd. It sounds slightly hysterical to his own ears.  
  
The creases of concern upon Alba's brow deepen. "Come in," he says, drawing his arm back in a slightly stilted gesture of welcome. "You must be exhausted. Your journey was long and..." He screws his eyes closed, swallowing hard. "Please, just come in."  
  
Alba guides him to a seat set by a well-built fire, fetches him a fur to draw around his shoulders when his shivers – which have naught to do with the cold, in any case – do not lessen, and then rushes back and forth, hither and yon bringing back ale, and cold meats, and bread, and dried fruit in an abundance, none of which Gwynedd has any stomach for.  
  
When he runs out of things to fetch for Gwynedd's supposed benefit, he finally takes the chair opposite Gwynedd's, albeit only with reluctance judging by his anguished expression.  
  
Once seated, he wets his mouth with some ale. Picks listlessly at a heel of bread. Stretches his long legs out towards the hearth and then almost immediately thereafter draws them back again.  
  
It's only after this fresh well of distraction has also been drained dry that Alba looks at Gwynedd directly for the first time since he arrived.  
  
His eyebrows arc high. "You look younger."  
  
"So I've been told," Gwynedd says. He's seen little evidence of it himself, but, then again, he's never been one for gazing at his own reflection. If there are have been any alterations to his features, they are subtle ones.  
  
He _has_ noticed, however, that his voice has started to climb up the register again, and his whiskers – still a relative novelty, in any case – have begun growing ever slower.  
  
But he has been changing for years, too, even if it has been a more gradual process than for others of his kin. It has not worried him unduly, as only ageing is to be feared amongst their kind, and this sort of transformation is not uncommon.  
  
Englaland, for one, has been made a boy again, even though each one of the kingdoms that went into his making was near a man grown, and...

>   
>    
>  _And hasn't that always been the way of things? Englaland the runt of the litter, Alba towering over him, and Gwynedd somewhere in between, trying to be the balance between them?_

 

The memory's not one of his own – he's not even sure it belonged to _anyone_ before this very moment – and though it feels like a true one all the same, it sits so awkwardly in his mind that it makes his skull ache.  
  
Distantly, he hears Alba ask, "Are you all right?"

>   
>  _He has asked Gwynedd that once, and once only, before – mere days after their mother died, the one time Gwynedd hadn't quite been quick enough to wipe away his tears..._

 

But it had been the boy who would become Alt Clut who had asked, and he'd repeated the question many times in the days and weeks that followed. He'd embraced Gwynedd tightly, and let him cry for as long as he needed.  
  
Gwynedd's head throbs again, and he rubs at his temples in an effort to soothe it.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Alba tentatively reaching out a hand towards him, and his stomach churns; the thought of that unfamiliar hand being laid upon him in anything approaching intimacy suddenly sickening him.  
  
He shrinks back in his seat. "Sorry," he says with no real feeling behind it. "I'm just... I'm remembering things that never happened. It's unsettling."  
  
"Aye," Alba says, his colour rising slightly as he withdraws his hand. "I know."  
  
"It's never struck me this strongly before. I don't understand why it should be different this time."  
  
"I think it may be because I'm the only kingdom in the north now." Alba lifts his shoulders in a loose shrug. "Perhaps there's no room left over for all the others."  
  
That seems as good as explanation as any to Gwynedd, who has none of his own to offer in its place. "Perhaps," he says.  
  
"The forgetting will likely be stronger, as well," Alba says.  
  
"You're probably right."  
  
"Quicker, too."  
  
Alba looks then towards the far side of the room and falls silent. Gwynedd is glad for both, because when he's not looking at him with Strathclyde's eyes, the tumult of Gwynedd's thoughts subsides.  
  
Eventually, Alba stirs himself again and, with his gaze still fixed on that same indefinable point that has kept his attention for the past five minutes or more, he says, "Just in case my old memories do fade away entirely in time, I think... I _want_ you to know first that he loved you."  
  
It seems such an odd thing to say that Gwynedd can't help but chuckle. "Strathclyde? Well, of course he did. He was my brother."  
  
"No, not Strath—"  
  
"Stop," Gwynedd cries out, gorge rising in his throat. He's been very careful to avoid even coming close to such a conclusion over this past century and more. "Please... Please don't."  
  
Alba frowns. "I thought you would be glad to hear it."  
  
"But we can't be sure that I _will_ forget," Gwynedd says. He understands more completely than ever before why Pictland chose to stay silent when they parted company that final time. "And that's... That's a memory I would have no wish to keep. I think you should do you best not to remember it, either, if you can."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because we are brothers now, _Yr Alban_ ," Gwynedd says. "It will be kinder on both of us if we forget."

**Author's Note:**

> \- 'Rome's old wall' is the Antonine Wall, which represented the northernmost frontier barrier of the Roman Empire (and stood at the northern border of Alt Clut's lands). It took twelve years to build, and then was abandoned twenty years after that. It was briefly manned again in the 3rd century, but this new occupation ended after only a few years.
> 
> \- In 597, The Battle of Catreath was fought by Gododdin and its allies, including men from the other kingdoms of Yr Hen Ogledd, Gwynedd and Pictland. The Britons were soundly defeated by the Angles of Bernicia, and all of the northern kingdoms were significantly weakened by the loss.
> 
> \- According to Y Gododdin, a medieval Welsh poem commemorating the battle, the ruler of Gododdin invited the warriors to take part in a year's feasting at Din Eidyn (Edinburgh) before the campaign was begun.
> 
> \- The reasons for the campaign are a little unclear, but it was believed that they might have been intending to win back Ebrauc (York; old capital of the Celtic north) from the Angles. The battle was, however, fought at Catreath (Catterick; North Yorkshire) which was lost after Rheged was attacked.


End file.
